The Fortress
by geraldine01
Summary: Harlan Garrett visits Lancer and some dreadful things occur. Some good things happen, too, including an inheritance. A 20-part Lancer family mystery. H/C, hurt!Johnny, bad!Harlan, heroic!Scott, family, gen, western. Written years ago, now being posted here in chapter form.
1. Chapter 1

Fandom: Lancer  
Rating: PG  
Genre: family, gen, h/c, mystery

A 20-part Lancer family mystery. Harlan Garrett visits and dreadful things occur. None of the family members die, and although they may suffer injuries, they recover. The violence is muted and if there is death, it is not any of the aforesaid family members.

Written: May 2007 ( a long time ago and in a fandom far, far away!) I lightly revised it at some point. Please accept it as it is, and leave feedback, comments - which are always appreciated.

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 **THE FORTRESS**

 _When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life.  
Antisthenes 5_ _th_ _c. B.C._

CHAPTER 1 - THE MEDDLER

Scott was not happy. Even though his grandfather had only been at Lancer for a few days, he had already set everyone on edge. Harlan Garrett had found fault with almost everyone and everything on the ranch.

"Just when you think it's safe. . . " Johnny had scoffed.

"Ya can never tell which side of his mouth he's gonna be talkin' outta," Jelly had commented. When Scott questioned him about what he was insinuating, the gruff ranch hand had sidled away, mumbling how the visitor had already outworn his welcome.

It was true. Scott had either personally witnessed, or been told, sometimes at great length, about how Harlan Garrett had raised the hackles of everyone he came in contact with. The complaints ranged from the mundane; "Mr. Garrett made me change his bed sheets again just this morning, said they weren't fresh enough," said Maria with a sniff. "I myself made up the bed only four days ago."; to the more serious, "Mister Garrett tossed his cigar butt in the hay and near set the whole barn on fire. I know he only did it cuz he knew I'd jump and pick it up 'fore any harm was caused. I didn't know if I shoulda said somethin' to you, Scott, on account o' him being your kin and all." That was from Pete, one of the drovers.

Friction between the ranch folk and the Boston relative had not been totally unexpected. Scott decided to have a discussion with his grandfather after supper. It wasn't his place to criticize his elders, but he could remind him that a high tone would win no friends out here.

That evening, Garrett was having a before-supper drink with Murdoch when Scott joined them in the great room. A stranger might have thought that the two gray-haired men were merely having a lively conversation, but Scott knew better. There were little daggers inserted into every other sentence and double-entendres peppered their conversation.

Murdoch could hold his own against Harlan, but Scott didn't enjoy the tension that arose every time his grandfather entered a room. He tried not to let it get to him, but it cut him to the core, especially where Johnny was concerned. His grandfather seemed to enjoy sending barbs in Johnny's direction, as if testing how much he could press before the young man erupted. But there would be no such sport over the supper table tonight because Johnny was not coming.

Scott was both annoyed that his brother was avoiding the meal and envious of his freedom. Johnny had been involved in a shouting match with Garrett only that morning, and then he had turned on his heel and headed for the door. Scott, without knowing what it was about, had grabbed his brother's arm, trying to hold him back, if only to calm him down. But Johnny, his face rigid with anger, had just shaken him off and left for town. The dust from Barranca's hooves had barely settled when Garrett had come out on the patio, smiling as he sneered, "Mexie's never can control their tempers and that crossbreed is no exception."

Scott held his temper and pointed out that the ranch couldn't run without those Mexicans and would his grandfather "please refrain from talking about my brother in such terms." Harlan had merely appeared mystified by the request. Scott sighed, afraid that Harlan's abrasive comments came naturally to him. The older man appeared oblivious that the words that slipped easily off his tongue were so insensitive.

~ • ~

Supper was an uncomfortable affair, with Maria just dumping the platters on the table and leaving in a huff. Teresa came late to the meal and made no attempt at conversation. She just sat there, picking at her food. Scott guessed there was another set of ruffled feathers to smooth and wondered when he had become the ranch's official peacekeeper.

He joined in the conversation now and then throughout the dinner, usually to placate one or the other of the men flanking him. He felt like a referee caught in the middle of a battle that wasn't of his making.

Murdoch and Harlan were able to talk about neutral subjects for at least a portion for the meal, though by the time Maria unceremoniously dropped the rhubarb pie on the table in front of Murdoch, the two older men were at it again. "The trouble with you Westerners," Garrett began, as he pointed his fork at his host, "is that you have no concept of fine cuisine. Back in Boston -"

Without a word, Teresa slid from her chair and headed for the kitchen. Scott tossed his napkin on the table and stood abruptly. Even as he excused himself, the two older men continued their latest debate. Murdoch would soon be ushering Garrett into the great room for a brandy and they were unlikely to miss his presence.

Scott found Teresa out back, sitting in the dark under a tree, her arms clasped around her legs. "Nice evening," Scott said neutrally. When he received no answer he tried again. "Teresa, you hardly ate anything at supper. How about returning with me to the kitchen and trying some of that pie? C'mon." Scott offered her a hand, waiting with a patience he didn't really feel.

Teresa looked at his extended hand for a moment before accepting it and allowing him to pull her to her feet. She stood still, making no move to go back in the house. The light spilling from the open kitchen doorway allowed Scott to catch the serious face expression on her face as she said in a low, intense voice, "That man is evil."

"What? You mean my grandfather?" Scott laughed, despite himself. "Now, honey, you're exaggerating."

She was resolute. "He is positively evil."

"No, he's not, and it's very impolite for you to say so. You don't know what you're talking about." Having said that, Scott immediately regretted his words. He hadn't meant to talk down to her. Besides, Teresa was only voicing aloud what many others had already said behind Harlan Garrett's back.

Before he could correct his mistake, Teresa spoke up defensively. "Are you telling me that I don't know what I'm saying because I'm only a girl?" She stood defiantly with her hands on her hips. "Or because, as he put it, I'm 'just a servant' around here?"

"Teresa! He didn't -"

"Yes he did! Mr. Garrett sets his beady eyes on me and then looks at me with this expression on his face, like I'm a bug or something . . . and he makes me feel . . . feel so . . . so small." She struggled to keep her lower lip from trembling.

"Oh Teresa, that was very unkind if he said that, but you're not a servant and you know it."

"He said I was only allowed to live in the house because Mr. Lancer was easy prey for women like my mother who coerced him and that Murdoch felt guilty over causing my father's death and I know that's not true but . . ." She let out a sob, but covered her mouth with a hand and managed to compose herself.

"Your father was Murdoch's best friend, and the cause of his death was a bullet in his back from Day Pardee's gun, as far as we know." Even as Scott held back his anger at his grandfather, he gave Teresa a reassuring hug. "Murdoch isn't influenced by anyone, not even your mother." He wasn't really sure that was the entire truth, because he'd often wondered how close his father had been to Teresa's attractive mother. Scott had a feeling that if Angel Day had stayed around any longer the last time she had visited, his own resistance would have failed.

"But about Johnny . . . " Her voice trailed off as she looked back at the house.

"What about Johnny?"

"Johnny left and he said he wouldn't come back home until your grandfather was gone."

"I see."

"He meant it, Scott," she wailed.

"Johnny isn't going to let anyone, especially my grandfather, drive him out of his own home. He's probably gone to town to have a few drinks and play some poker with his friends. It is Saturday, after all." But recalling the angry look on his brother's face as he had rushed past, Scott carefully asked Teresa, "Do you know what they were fighting about?"

She didn't say anything at first, but twisted the fabric of her skirt in one hand as she considered her reply. Just as Scott was about to ask the same question another way, Teresa said in a small voice, "Mr. Garrett told Johnny that even when you went back to Boston with him, Johnny shouldn't count on getting his hands on the rest of the ranch. That it was really yours. He also said he was making arrangements with his lawyers to make sure you were the sole heir to the Lancer estate. He called Johnny a half-breed. And worse." She looked up at Scott and asked fearfully, "Is that true, Scott? Can Mr. Garrett take the ranch away from Johnny? Can he do that?"

"No," he replied firmly. "None of that is true."

"You're not going back to Boston with him, are you?"

"I was considering returning with Grandfather, but only for a short visit. Now. . . now I'm not so sure." He frowned at Teresa. "How did you know that I was thinking of going to Boston?"

"Your grandfather told Johnny he was taking you with him." When Scott raised an eyebrow, she quickly added, "I wasn't eavesdropping. Not really. But I could hear them plainly from the next room. They were pretty loud." She relaxed when Scott didn't censure her. "Scott, What does he mean by calling you the sole heir? Johnny has as much right to the ranch as you do. Doesn't he?"

Teresa had sometimes wondered if Murdoch would arrange for one of his sons to be the primary beneficiary of the spread when he was gone. It didn't seem out of the question; many a man left his assets solely to his first-born. But then what would Johnny do? Would he leave if he didn't have an equal say in the running of Lancer? She wondered if he would even accept being second. Johnny liked to be first at everything.

"This is nothing for you to worry about, Teresa," Scott assured her. "My grandfather is meddling in something in which he has no business and I'll see that it stops. Lancer is Murdoch's and Johnny's and mine in equal shares. Nothing can change that." Both brothers knew that when Murdoch died, hopefully many years from now, that Lancer would belong equally to them. No back-East lawyer could take Johnny's portion away from him. Harlan must have been speaking out of spite, to rile Johnny.

Teresa nodded. "I told you he's a mean old man, Scott. Your mother had a good reason to run off with Murdoch the first chance she got. Who would want Mr. Garrett for a father?"

Scott sighed. "He's still my grandfather, Teresa. That has to count for something." Scott was not ignorant of his grandfather's shortcomings. He had witnessed enough of the old man's morally and even legally questionable business dealings when he had been involved in the family business. At first, Scott had only vague suspicions, and later he realized he had not wanted to see what was going on under his own nose.

"He's not a bad man," he said judiciously, "but he is self-interested and . . . I suppose . . . unlikable." He felt a mixture of guilt and relief at the thoughts from the back of is mind that he had finally formed into words. "I worked in his firm for almost two years when I was recovering from . . . the war." In those days, he had still respected his grandfather. "I eventually acknowledged that my grandfather's way of doing business was not my own."

Teresa looked at him curiously. "You never say anything about the war or what you did when it was over, Scott. Why did you work for your grandfather?"

"I was being groomed to take over the family's accounting business, but it didn't take me long to become exceedingly bored. At first I just thought that I needed some more experience before making a judgment, but by the time the Pinkerton agent presented me with Murdoch's offer to come to Lancer, I'd already decided to leave."

"Were you considering going back into the military, then? You must have had an awful time in that Rebel prison," she said sympathetically.

There was too much to relate about the war and his experiences, and no sane place to begin. "It's better not to even start, Teresa. How about we talk about something else?" Scott remembered the night back in Boston when his whole life had taken a mighty turn. He'd quarreled with his grandfather about his future and then stormed out. He had spent the evening with a pretty blond socialite, and had been planning to enjoy her charms as a way of forgetting the mess that was his life, if only for one night. But they had been interrupted and it was while making his escape in the dark that the Pinkerton agent had caught up with him.

Murdoch Lancer's offer to pay his way out West had piqued Scott's interest. He had run through every emotion regarding his father during his formative years, but when faced with the offer to visit Lancer, he had been surprised to find that the strongest feeling he had was not hate, nor resentment, but curiosity. "Let's just say that I took Murdoch's summons as an opportunity to get out from under my grandfather's wing. I set out on my trip to California within the week." He added with a smile, "Never regretted it for one moment."

"Was Mr. Garrett very angry?" Teresa asked. "That you left Boston to come to Lancer?"

Scott laughed humorlessly. "Oh yes, he was more than angry. Grandfather was full of disapproval, and he even tried to bribe me when he couldn't cajole me into giving up such folly." He looked at Teresa with a slight smile playing about his lips. "It makes me wonder what would have happened if I hadn't accepted Murdoch's offer. I believe I might have come out West anyway, perhaps at some later date. I'd always wanted to see this country." He mused, "To think I might have missed out on meeting Johnny."

"Just Johnny?" She gave him a dig in his ribs with a finger.

"Hmmm, who else might I have missed?" he teased as he gave Teresa a quick hug. "My life would have been very different without you, Johnny, and my father to share it with. But right now we have to figure out what to do with our unwelcome guest, don't we?"

"Can you get him to leave, Scott?" She looked up at him pleadingly.

"You mean, ask him to leave right now? I don't think we can toss him out on his ear in the middle of the night, no matter how much people on the ranch dislike him." Oddly enough, Garrett, for all the trouble he was causing, seemed to enjoy spending time at Lancer. This was his second trip, and after the way he'd behaved the last time, he was lucky they'd even let him through the gates. Garrett had even ridden out on his own a couple of times, exploring the nearby hills, he'd said. He might not leave easily. "Perhaps he'll cut his visit short if given enough incentive. I might suggest he travel to San Francisco and I could accompany him. Perhaps a trip to celebrate my birthday, as it's in a couple of days."

"Oh, but then you wouldn't be here for your birthday." Teresa looked disappointed, but then her face suddenly lit up. "Scott, you could introduce Mr. Garrett to my mother if you took him to San Francisco. I haven't heard from her in a few months, but she's most likely still doing shows at the Palace. Mr. Garrett could escort her around, don't you think?" She looked at Scott with an impish grin on her face.

Scott grinned in return. "Angel would eat him alive."

Teresa replied, with a nod, "Exactly."

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	2. Chapter 2

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CHAPTER 2 - THE INHERITANCE

"I said no such thing," Harlan protested. "I've barely spoken to her, as it is. The girl obviously misunderstood my meaning." Shutting the door of his bedroom, Harlan sat down on the wingback chair, calmly crossing his legs. He was confident that that Scott would decline his suggestion to be seated, but he made the gesture anyway.

"No thank you, Sir." Scott clasped his hands behind his back and stood at attention. Adopting a military stance was his best defense against the irritation that threatened to swell into anger.

"So, speak up boy, get whatever it is off your chest," Harlan ordered with a tolerant smile.

Scott decided to get right to the point. "You aren't planning to take some kind of legal action to render my brother illegitimate are you? Because I want to make it clear that any move against any member of my family will not be tolerated."

"Scottie, of course not. What Murdoch does with his property is none of my business. If he wants to give that young fellow a third of his ranch, then so be it. I'm sure if I had children born on the wrong side of the sheets I'd feel some sort of responsibility, too-"

"Grandfather! Johnny's mother was married to Murdoch, and I'd appreciate it if you refrain from insinuating anything else. Johnny is my brother, both in a legal and family sense."

"Well, at least your lineage is beyond reproach. Both my family and your grandmother's can be traced back hundreds of years and every man had a son with a clear line to the family tree. I may have had more influence than money, but I had a fine business sense and married well. When I am gone you will inherit a great estate, Scott, and the Garrett family is counting on you to get married and keep the line going."

Scott protested, "Grandfather–"

Harlan continued, "Now, now, I've seen the way that little slip of a girl looks at you. If you're not careful she'll work her wiles on you, and back you into a corner that you can't extricate yourself from."

"You're talking about Teresa?" Scott was flabbergasted and shook his head. "She is like my sister, sir. That is all, but even so, well, she will make a good wife for some lucky man some day. She was very hurt by what you said to her. She's Murdoch's ward and is just as much a family member as I am."

Harlan dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "She is nothing but the daughter of a servant. She is like all of her kind. The poorer and more obligated they are to the master, the more likely they are to worm their way into his good graces. They take advantage of a man's generous nature just to get their hands on your fortune. Mark my words, my boy, that girl is aiming to get into your bed on her way to getting hold of your money! If you don't wake up soon, you'll be sorry."

"Sir! You've got it all wrong. Teresa's a fine young lady–"

"Just so long as you don't put a gold ring on her finger, Scottie. Keep her as a mistress if you have to, but only after you're safely wed to a real lady. You need to return to Boston, where you belong, and take hold of one of the fine girls who have breeding and a big dowry. That's the only way to succeed."

Knowing that quarreling with his grandfather would only add fuel to the fire, Scott tried to respond calmly. "You make it sound like a business merger. If and when I marry, Grandfather, it won't be to keep the line going. I'll marry a woman who suits me - and for love."

"Pshaw, look what good it did your poor mother! Marrying some foreign fellow off the boat, cajoled by his empty promises. Murdoch Lancer took my Catherine away from everything she knew, dragged her out to this rough and treacherous wilderness. Murdoch–"

"Don't even start in on Murdoch," Scott advised with his voice raised. "You've insulted just about everyone on this ranch, and it's time you halted. If you can't behave like a gentleman, then you won't be welcome here. Is that clear? You were only invited back after I assured my family that you were repentant for your past behavior. If that is untrue, then you may leave."

Harlan acted as if he hadn't heard Scott's warning. "Then there's the problem with regards to this half-brother of yours. If you meet up with an accident or if something were to befall you, he and Murdoch would reap the benefits. I don't want your inheritance going to feed the mouths of some half-breed's offspring, and you can bet he's got them and their mothers lined up from here to Chihuahua."

"Enough! You're not on your deathbed yet, and even if you were, you can leave your money to someone else. I'm not interested in it. You can leave your estate to some distant cousin, or to your alma mater - to anyone except me. If I take my leave before Johnny does, then he gets everything that is mine. No matter if I have one dollar or a million, I want my brother to have what is mine. That is how I have written my will, not that it's any business of yours."

"Don't you speak to me in that tone, young man!"

"I am not your young man, sir, and I'll speak any way I want to in my own house. In case you've forgotten, I am no longer under your influence."

Harlan looked askance at Scott. "I sometimes forget that you are your own man." He looked down at his hands for a minute, and then sighed. "You see, I worry about you. I have nobody else. You have had some close calls since you've come out here. This is a very dangerous country. Just look at that incident that occurred when I was arriving on the stage the other day."

"Any number of men would have done the same. I only got there first," Scott said defensively. He had intervened when a carriage horse, spooked by the incoming stagecoach, had reared up and become entangled in its own traces. Without thought, he had rushed in to grab the animal's halter while another man had extricated it.

"But you jumped in and calmed the beast! You never would have done anything so irresponsible back in Boston. This land has made you reckless. You came close to being stricken by a hoof, my boy . . . far too close. And did you not disarm some scoundrel who held you hostage, just a short while ago? You told me that he was intent on killing you when he mistook you for your brother!"

"Of course I don't seek danger. I defend what's mine, sir, and that gang was threatening not only Lancer, but the whole town." Never had he felt so close to death as when faced with a spray of bullets fired from Drago's Gatling gun. The leader of the small gang had tested him to see if he would stand or run, and when the shooting had ceased, Scott had been surprised when he had found himself still alive. When he'd faced the enemy he had felt his senses heightened, but unlike during the war, he had enjoyed it. But more importantly, he had come out of it knowing for sure that he belonged here at Lancer.

Scott explained, "I wouldn't have told you about Drago if I'd thought you'd hold it over my head forever. I don't want to be coddled, Grandfather." Scott hadn't intended to tell Garrett about the whole escapade, but when Jelly had slipped and made mention of it, he'd had no choice but to relate the barest details of what had occurred.

"I still say this rough country cannot be to your liking, not after the upbringing you've had. You must miss your old life, Scott," Garrett cajoled. "Social functions, theater, city life at its best, conversations with fellows of your own educational level. . ."

The West also offered a kind of freedom that Scott had never had before. All his adult life he'd been under someone's rule. His grandfather, the professors at college, and the military had all directed his life. Murdoch may cast a patriarchal eye over his sons, but he treated them like men and respected their opinions. Scott enjoyed this life and he had developed a deep sense of pride in this land and everything that the ownership of it entailed. "Lancer means everything to me, Grandfather."

"But you endanger yourself every day out here in this heathen wilderness," Harlan insisted doggedly. "Catherine died in this God-forsaken land, and I don't want the same fate for you. Please come home with me, Scottie. There is so much more for you in Boston: society, politics, women . . .money. But I'm not only talking about my holdings. I'm thinking of the money that is coming to you now you're of age, the money from your grandmother's side of the family. Your thoughtless behavior puts all of this at risk."

Bristling, Scott replied, "If I haven't made it clear before, nothing, not even blackmail, can make me change my mind. You lied to Johnny and told him I'd agreed to go back to Boston with you. I never said I would, only that I would consider a visit. This is my home now. I know that my grandmother's family made a small fortune in shipping, and that I am to receive a portion on my twenty-seventh birthday, but it won't make any difference to me."

Harlan smiled and leaned forward. "It is now more than a small fortune, I assure you. Only the men inherit within her family, my boy, and now that my late wife's brother has died, you are the last remaining male descendent. That means it all goes to you in two days' time. It is time for a great change. You will take over from the interim board of directors and run the company . . .under my expert guidance, of course. This is one of the reasons I came here. I'm carrying a copy of a document that outlines the entire inheritance to you." He reached for a leather case sitting on his bureau and withdrew a heavy, folded and sealed parchment, offering it to Scott. "Why don't you sit down, my boy?"

Scott stood uneasily, curious about its content but unwilling to give in to the old man. "I don't want to sit down, thank you." He gingerly accepted the folded paper, making no attempt to open it. "If this board has been handling everything since my great-uncle's death, they can just continue as is. I'm not about to take over the family business, Grandfather." He'd come into this room angry with his grandfather, and now the old man expected him to drop everything, to just leave his home and go back East in order to become something he was not and would never be- an executive. No amount of money could pry him from Lancer.

"It is much more than just a shipping company, Scott." Harlan Garrett spoke in a silky tone as he rubbed his hands together. "The holdings include a mill, factories and other valuable interests. I've been keeping an eye on it all for you. At the last count, the estate was valued at twenty million dollars. And now it's all yours, Scott."

Wordless, Scott sat down on the bed.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	3. Chapter 3

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 3 - THE DELIVERY

Scott couldn't get to sleep. Johnny still hadn't returned by the time they'd all turned in and although it wasn't unusual, it was unsettling. Troubled by his grandfather's words, Scott couldn't stop turning them over in his mind. Harlan had never before been so boldly opinionated, almost desperate, in an attempt to make Scott see his way.

Scott turned over and pulled the blanket over his shoulder, thinking about his inheritance. Returning to Boston permanently was not an option he would even consider, but he knew that the responsibility inherent in the legacy meant he would have to go back at some point.

The money was such a large amount it was hard to picture. His gut reaction was to refuse it, but as he started to think of things he could do to improve the lives of the people around him. A new school in Morro Coyo, complete with skilled teachers, would be a good start. He could provide the salary of another doctor, and set up a small hospital. Invest in top notch breeding stock for the spread, lay a spur of railroad so they could get the cattle to market with ease, repair the crumbling roof of the older part of the hacienda, and maybe even get indoor plumbing. The possibilities were endless.

He was eager for Johnny to get home so he could tell him all about it.

~ • ~

Before he had gone to bed, Scott had located Murdoch seated at his desk in the great room, tidying some papers.

His father had listened to his concerns about Harlan Garrett and then had calmly said, "He'll be gone before you know it, Son, then we can all get back to normal. Just tonight Harlan confirmed he was planning on leaving by the week's end. I suspect that Johnny was glad of an excuse to get out of sitting through another meal with him."

"I don't know. Grandfather was being offensive to Johnny, I heard. I only caught the tale end of it, but Teresa told me what was said."

Murdoch frowned. "Hmm. Yes, she told me just now, but I'm sure your brother's perfectly happy drinking with his pals in town, as we speak." He was angry enough to consider tossing Harlan out immediately, but he was more concerned that Scott's grandfather may coerce him in some way. "At least Johnny's out of harm's way in town. I'll find your brother a job that'll keep him away from the house as much as possible for the next few days."

"It isn't Johnny who should be sent away."

"No, but that's the best solution I can think of right now. I say we just ride this visit out." Murdoch had indicated the paperwork that Scott had, crushed in his hand. "You have something to show me?"

"Oh, yes. Can you look this over?" Unfolding the heavy document, he handed it to his father. Scott then explained about the terms of the inheritance in a neutral tone.

Murdoch had taken his time replying, emitting an occasional grunt as he read through the dense legalese. Finally he had asked, "You said that Harlan has been keeping an eye on this fortune? One thing he's good at and that's holding onto money, even if he has no claim to a penny of it."

"It doesn't seem real," Scott had said. "It would have made such a difference if my mother had inherited her share of it, and brought it with her into her marriage with you." There was no denying that such an enormous amount of money would cause change and Scott just hoped it wasn't going to drastically alter his own life. He had felt settled here, had known his place and felt content, but this was upsetting his perspective of his world and somehow it didn't feel right to him.

"If it is real, and this document does look valid, then by accepting such a large amount of money," Murdoch had said evenly, "you'll also be shouldering a great deal of responsibility. There are several businesses mentioned here; holdings in ironworks, shipping, even a stake in a railroad. Hmm. It looks like a lot of employees as well as other family members will be relying on you. Catherine may have been an only child, but she had a large extended family. Her uncle had seven girls, I believe, and they must have families of their own by now. They all need to be treated fairly, even if this will's objective is to assure that the next male in line is the sole successor."

"It should have been divided equally between the family members, and my mother's share should have become yours."

Surprisingly, Murdoch had smiled. "Wills are rarely fair, my boy, yet we have to respect the intent. Catherine told me how the estate was to go to the next male when you were due to be born. I was happy that your future was to be secure. Besides, my life has been full, knowing your mother and Johnny's, and then building this ranch by myself. My reward lies in knowing I did it on my own."

"I didn't comprehend the scope of this inheritance," Scott had explained. "I knew that my grandmother's family had their hands in several large industries, but their fortune never meant much to me. My grandmother died when I was very young and we rarely encountered my cousins, so I've only known my grandfather as family." He had looked up quickly at Murdoch. "Until I met you and Johnny, of course. It says this is only a notification and that there will be more documents, and more attorneys involved, after I turn twenty-seven."

"Then I suggest that until then you go about your business here and don't worry about it too much. Take it one step at a time." Murdoch had clasped a hand to Scott's shoulder and said, "I know you'll handle it well, son. You have no obligation to Harlan Garrett. Go to bed now."

Scott had said good night, but as he approached the door he hesitated then turned back to face his father. "Grandfather doesn't seem willing to acknowledge how much Johnny means to me," Scott had said, aggrieved that there was conflict between his own kin.

Murdoch had looked at his son with understanding in his eyes. "Yes, Scott. He does understand how much your brother means to you. He knows exactly how much." He had turned the wick low on the lamp on his desk. "I'll leave a light on for Johnny."

~ • ~

Not sure what had awoken him, Scott propped himself up on one elbow. He listened to the night sounds, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Just as he was about to lie down again he heard a faint sound coming from outside, seemingly from the front of the house. It was too dark to see his pocket watch on the bedside table but he thought it must be around four in the morning. The faintest bit of light was creeping over the inky-black hills, barely enough to see by. He quietly padded across his room and opened the door to the hallway. It was pitch black, all the doors were shut, and the sound of muffled snores was emanating from more than one bedroom.

The noise occurred again, this time a little louder - a horse nickering, accompanied by a dull thud. Scott quickly stepped back into his bedroom and pulled his pants on over his long-john bottoms. Choosing to remain barefoot, he carried his boots in one hand and his revolver in the other as he headed to investigate. He hesitated at Murdoch's doorway but decided not to disturb him. He slipped along the hall and down the back stairs, then across the great room.

The lamp on Murdoch's desk, with its wick turned down low, cast strange shadows on the walls as Scott cautiously moved to the French doors. He slowly opened one glass-paned door and peered out. There, no more than a silhouette in the faint pre-dawn light, was a buckboard drawn up to the front of the house. A man was hauling at something heavy as he tried to unload it from the flat wagon bed.

Only a few quick steps across the flagstone patio and Scott was standing within a few yards of the wagon. "What's your business here?" Scott demanded loudly as he dropped his boots and raised his gun. "I've got you covered!" The click of the revolver's hammer was loud in the quiet night.

The man, startled, turned quickly, instinctively raising his hands defensively. "Don't … don't shoot! I don't mean no harm, honest!"

Scott cautiously approached the wagon that loomed darkly in front of the house. "Speak up," he ordered. "This is no time to be skulking around on private property,"

"I only did what the sheriff told me to do," a quavering voice called out. "I ain't done nothing wrong! He told me to come to the Lancer ranch."

Seeing that man was scared, Scott calmly assured him, "This is Lancer."

"You Scott Lancer?" the man asked hopefully.

Wondering what was so important that some stranger was making a delivery in the middle of the night, and somewhat annoyed, Scott replied, "Yes. Scott Lancer. State your business so I can get back to bed." He lowered his weapon to his side and let the hammer down carefully.

The man said unsurely, "He . . . he keeps asking for Scott." He gestured towards the wagon bed.

"Who keeps asking for me?" Scott peered at the jumble of dark, bulky objects that filled the back of the wagon. Feeling around, he touched what he realized was a man's inert body. When he instinctively jerked his hand away, he inadvertently touched a row of large buttons running down a trouser leg. He immediately knew who those studded pants belonged to. "Johnny!" he cried. Pushing the wagon driver aside, Scott ordered him to get a lamp from the patio. As the man scrambled to obey, Scott grabbed hold of Johnny, calling out his name again.

There was only a moan in reply.

The man returned with a newly lit lamp even as the large figure of Murdoch appeared right behind him.

Murdoch demanded, "What's going on?"

Scott tucked his gun into his waistband and grasped Johnny's waist, pulling his body towards the edge of the wagon bed. There was a rough blanket covering his brother and underneath it he felt warm. When Scott adjusted his grip, he realized his hand was wet with something sticky. "It's Johnny," was all he could say to his father.

The driver lifted the lamp high, illuminating the scene as Murdoch helped Scott ease the limp body to the edge the wagon. Scott didn't need the glow of the lamp to tell him what he already knew, that Johnny's body was covered in blood.

~ • ~

Lamps were lit throughout the house. Teresa and Maria appeared, then the ranch hands emerged from the bunkhouse. They came forward in various states of undress, slowly at first, then faster as they realized the gravity of the situation, the men hauling up their suspenders, the women clutching their shawls about their bosoms.

Murdoch tersely questioned the hapless driver, but it soon became apparent that he had been ordered by Sheriff Stillwater simply to bring Johnny home. The lawman was still out chasing down the culprits who had attacked Johnny.

"It were two men," the man explained eagerly. "I didn't see nothing, but the sheriff, he ran them fellers off afore they killed this boy here. They beat on him somethin' terrible, that's what the sheriff said. I was just happening by. I was on my way home . . . I live just up the canyon road there." He pointed somewhere in a direction beyond the Lancer gate.

Murdoch didn't question how anyone was 'just happening by' in the wee hours of the morning, as the man reeked of cheap perfume as well as whiskey. To Scott he said, "Johnny's out cold. We can share his weight and get him inside." As they lifted up Johnny's limp body, slinging his arms around their shoulders, Murdoch noticed his son's holster was empty. He wondered if Johnny had managed to defend himself before he'd lost his sidearm.

Once the men had carried Johnny into the great room, they laid him on the large settee. His feet dangled onto the floor but the bulk of his body was on the cushions, still wrapped in the driver's old blanket. Johnny's eyes were closed, one of the lids puffy and discolored from a blow. There were several cuts and bruises on his face and neck.

Teresa placed a fringed pillow under Johnny's head and gasped when her hand came away red with blood. Removing the shawl that covered her long white nightgown, she held it to Johnny's head wound. "Maria, we need some towels and–" She turned to find the housekeeper already coming to help, with a bowl of water and several towels in her arms.

The wagon's driver, who identified himself as Amos Whipple, assured them that the doctor had been sent for. He was at an outlying ranch tending to a woman giving birth, but he would come as soon as he was able. "We figgered since Doc was closer to your place than to town, it'd be best to bring your boy here." Now that Johnny was settled in his own home, Whipple was itching to take his leave. "I just knew this night was gonna end up bad for me," he complained, shaking his head regretfully.

Murdoch cast him a dangerous look, causing the man to back away quickly.

Scott aided Murdoch to carefully unwrap the blood-soaked blanket from Johnny's body, exposing his darkly wet shirt. They inspected the unconscious man's torso for the source of the bleeding and discovered a wide strip of burlap being used as a makeshift bandage around his waist. Rolling the wounded man onto his side, they cut it off and removed a sodden wad of none-too-clean fabric that was sticking to his flesh. There they discovered an ugly knife wound in his lower back, just above his waist, still oozing darkly.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	4. Chapter 4

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 4 - THE GAME

"Teresa, we need to make ready the bedroom. Downstairs," Maria said over her shoulder as she reached for medical supplies stored in the kitchen cupboard. Teresa nodded and went ahead to light the lamps and turn back the bed of the unused guest room. It would be convenient, being so near to the kitchen.

It appeared that Harlan Garrett must still be up in his room, sleeping right through all of the commotion, for which Teresa was more than glad. The last thing she wanted was to have his critical gaze on her as she went about her tasks. She also knew that Johnny wouldn't be at all pleased for Mr. Garrett to see him in his present condition.

~ • ~

The ragged knife wound in his brother's lower back gave Scott a sinking feeling. "He's so pale. This must have been bleeding for some time," Scott said to his father in exasperation. "What were they thinking of? It must have taken an hour to get here from town in that wagon." He grabbed a towel and held it to the wound with a shaking hand. He took some deep breaths to calm down and forced himself to unclench his jaw.

Murdoch laid a hand on Scott's shoulder as he leaned over to assess the damage. "It looks like it may have cut in at an angle, so hopefully the blade didn't hit anything vital. The blood isn't very dark. Just keep pressure on it."

Scott knew that his father was only guessing and was probably trying to reassure himself as much as anyone else. "How could anyone do this to Johnny? How could they get so close," Scott asked as he helped Murdoch remove the remainder of Johnny's torn shirt. His father just shook his head as they checked over Johnny's body in case there were any more wounds.

"There are some bruises on his ribs and stomach, but he doesn't seem to have anything broken," Murdoch said. "His right wrist will need attention, too." He carefully supported Johnny's swollen, bruised forearm for Scott to rinse some of the grime and blood way.

Murdoch had felt a physical pain when he had first viewed his son's battered face and body in the light. It disturbed him that he hadn't been able to prevent the attack, no matter that he couldn't have possibly foreseen it. But ultimately he was responsible for the safety of his family.

He couldn't help thinking: If the boy hadn't been abandoned at a young age, if he hadn't grown up fatherless, if he hadn't been made into a creature of violence. . . perhaps this kind of trouble would not still be following him. Although people sometimes talked about Johnny's past following him, Murdoch, who was not the kind of man to dwell on such things, saw his own past actions as the origin of his son's troubles.

Maria returned, with Jelly close behind, loaded down with supplies. She efficiently handed Murdoch a bottle of medicinal powder, which he sprinkled liberally on the gaping cut. They covered the wound with thick pads of gauze and bound Johnny's torso with heavy strips of cloth, supporting his limp head and body as they worked.

"He sure did take a beatin'," said Jelly. He looked scornfully over his shoulder at Amos Whipple. "At least some men don't cut and run when there's trouble a-brewin'."

Whipple cringed a bit but didn't move, even if he eyed the doorway.

Only when they were almost finished did Johnny's eyelids flutter. He moaned, turning his head restlessly, breathing as rapidly as if he'd run a footrace. Scott soothed his brother as they laid him back down on the settee. "Hang in there, Johnny. You're at home now. We're taking care of you." He looked around and asked, "Where's Teresa? I need more water."

"She's already gone to fetch it, so don't get all in a pucker," Jelly said as he nodded towards the kitchen.

Teresa returned, wearing an apron over her nightdress. She bore a pitcher of fresh water as well as an empty bucket for disposal of the bloodstained clothing and rags. Accepting a clean blanket from Jelly, she draped it gently over Johnny's chest. "The bed's ready any time you want to move him, Murdoch." She knew what tasks to perform, and did what was required of her with a skill borne of necessity. Outwardly calm, Teresa silently cursed whoever had hurt Johnny. It was not enough to quell her anger, which grew as she watched Johnny shifting in pain.

Murdoch took her hand for a brief moment, grasping her fingers in recognition for what she was doing and for her calm demeanor. He turned back to Johnny when he moaned. "Stay still, son. You're fine, just fine," he said in a soothing voice.

Johnny, with eyes still closed, responding with wordless sounds, called out to somebody. Murdoch got closer, straining to hear, but Johnny's body went limp, his lips parting as his head lolled to one side.

Scott pulled a chair close to the settee, sat down and dipped a cloth in the basin of water. As he cleansed away some of the dirt and dried blood on Johnny's head and neck, he glanced over his shoulder at Whipple. "Mr. Whipple, you were in town? You have any idea who did this to my brother?"

Whipple told them the lawman seemed to know who had attacked Johnny, but he hadn't spoken their names. He only knew that Sheriff Stillwater was after two cowboys. "Maybe the same men this young fellow'd playing poker and drinkin' with. There was some strangers around town past day or so, mostly cowboys come in from a drive. They been carousing some. I saw this one," he said, pointing to Johnny, "having a good time with some o' them fellers earlier, over to the dance hall."

Jelly looked worriedly at the unconscious man on the settee. "You want me to ride out, Mr. Lancer, jus' to light a fire under the Dr. Mendez? I can look up the sheriff, too. See if he's back yet from huntin' down them yeller vermin."

"Thank you, Jelly," Murdoch said gratefully. He was anxious for the doctor to come, but knew that it was likely to be some time before he showed up. "Whipple, where is Dr. Mendez now?"

"Up yonder just a few miles. The Bar T Ranch."

Jelly didn't need to hear any more. He snatched a rifle from the gun cabinet on his way out.

"I'll just take my leave then," Whipple said to no one in particular. "Hope yer boy don't get gangrene or nothin'."

Scott glared at the driver, then he and Murdoch turned their attention back to the wounded man, allowing Whipple to make his escape.

Once Johnny's face was rinsed off, numerous bruises and a few small cuts were revealed. His hair was matted with drying blood at the back of his head, where he'd taken a heavy blow. Scott pulled some small bits out of the black hair. "Looks like he got hit with a piece of wood."

"Nothing appears to be as serious as the wound in his back. We should bandage up his head and then get him into the guest room," Murdoch instructed. They wrapped long strips of linen around his head to secure a pad of cloth in place.

Cipriano and another ranch hand who had been hovering in the doorway helped to lift Johnny off the settee. They carried him into the guest room without incident, then removed the rest of his clothes and arranged him as comfortably as they could in the large bed.

Now in a state of semi-consciousness, Johnny turned his bandaged head from side to side. His eyes, partially open, sought something they could not see. Agitated, Johnny fended off Scott when he rolled him onto his side. "It's all right . . .all right now," Scott said. "Take it easy, brother." Johnny's struggles ceased and he settled down with a sigh.

Murdoch nodded thanks to the two ranch hands as they left the room offering their prayers for Johnny's speedy recovery.

Teresa half-sat on the bed to put a compress on Johnny's puffy eyelid. "Going to get some shiner," she surmised. "Pass me the witch hazel, will you Scott?" Looking up at the two Lancer men, she asked in a hushed voice, "You want coffee? Maria is making an early breakfast for everyone. The doctor will most likely come with the dawn."

"I'm going to get dressed. Scott, you watch him?" Murdoch didn't expect an answer. He already knew that Scott wasn't about to leave his brother's side. "Teresa, can you bring us that coffee and food in here?" Teresa drew the curtains open, casting a worried glance at Johnny as she left with Murdoch. "You keep him warm."

Scott nodded. This ground floor bedroom was convenient for guests due to the French doors that led directly out to the side patio. Opening the double doors, Scott let in some fresh morning air. In the far corner the small fountain was gurgling. The sky was already filled with a pale early morning light and he could see a couple of men at work, pumping water for the stock in the barn.

Nothing interfered with the chores on a ranch. Birth and death and everything in between were part of the rhythm. People grew wise from experiences early on, and took any hardship that fate threw at them in stride. There was an acceptance of the ups and downs that life brought you out West, he thought. Even though at present he felt that there were more lows being dealt out than any of them deserved, Scott felt more alive and fulfilled here than he'd ever been back home.

Scott knew that his brother felt the same as he did. Johnny wouldn't give in easily; he'd struggled to find his place in the world and had only recently accepted that it was here at Lancer.

He saw Johnny stirring again and went back to his bedside. As he gently wedged a pillow beneath Johnny's shoulder to keep him from rolling onto on his injury, a hand reached out and caught hold of his sleeve. Pulling a chair close to the bed, Scott leaned forward. "Johnny?"

Johnny's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. A soft groan came from his parted lips, then a slurred word. "Gun."

"What gun? You didn't get shot, Johnny."

"Get . . . mah gun."

Scott held his brother's hand in both of his own. "You don't need a gun right now." He smiled despite the seriousness of the situation. "I'm going to watch over you and Dr. Mendez is on his way. You need to relax, little brother."

"They took. . . my gun. They took Barranca." The blue eyes opened and silently appealed to Scott for the recovery of his horse.

"We'll get him back." He gripped Johnny's hand, trying to assure him that everything would be all right,

Johnny nodded slightly, then licked his dry lips.

When Scott momentarily turned and reached for a glass of water, Johnny's hand slipped away to dangle limply over the edge of the bed. Scott carefully lifted Johnny's head off the pillow to offer him a sip of water.

Johnny seemed eager to drink but he was so weak some of it ran out of the corner of his mouth. He finished, then fell back as if he didn't have a bone in his body. "Tired," he murmured.

"You sleep. I'm right here."

"Two of 'em. . . drew on a pair," Johnny mumbled, with eyes closed.

"Two men who played poker with you, did you know them? Tell me their names, Johnny." Scott tried to catch the whispered words of reply, but they were mere breaths without substance.

Scott inhaled deeply then sighed, running a hand over his face. More than anything, he wanted to be out there riding down the men who had backstabbed his brother. They both expected the other brother to be watchful in times of trouble, to stand up for him, to exact justice on his behalf.

"Sheriff Stillwater is tracking them, Johnny," he explained. "He's the one who found you, when you were attacked in town. He went right after those men, though how he can track in the dark is beyond me." The feeling that he needed to be in on their capture was strong, but Scott had to be satisfied that the sheriff would do his job well. He knew Gabe Stillwater to be a methodical lawman, one who wouldn't rest until the job was done to his satisfaction.

Johnny turned his bandaged head towards the patio doors, blinking at the morning light. Scott reassured his brother with a hand on his bare shoulder. "Now it's daylight, the sheriff will be rounding them up, Johnny. We'll see justice done."

~ • ~

Harlan stood in the doorway, wearing a silky dressing robe over a long nightshirt. "I heard a commotion," he said.

Murdoch brushed by, barely casting a glance his way. Dressed in his work clothes, he looked ready to start a normal day on the ranch. "My son has been hurt, Garrett," he said testily. "How about you go to the dining room and Maria will bring you breakfast?" Murdoch looked questioningly at Scott, who indicated with a slight shake of his head that there had been no improvement in Johnny's condition.

"He's in and out of consciousness," Scott said quietly.

Harlan peered at the figure on the bed and said peevishly, "It's rather early for all this activity. Not much past six, isn't it?"

For once, Scott didn't acknowledge his grandfather's presence with a greeting. All vestiges of courtesy suddenly seemed unimportant. As he placed a cool compress on his brother's bruised face, he could feel Harlan's eyes on the back of his head, but he didn't turn around to acknowledge him.

With downcast eyes Teresa edged past Scott's grandfather and stationed herself next to Johnny's bed.

Murdoch looked sternly at Scott's grandfather. "Early? The sun is up. We start work here as early as we can. You can have breakfast in the dining room." His tone left no room for any debate.

Without moving from the doorway, Harlan craned his neck to see past Murdoch's bulky shoulders. "What's wrong with the young man? He the one making all the racket?"

His patience wearing thin, Murdoch responded sourly, "Johnny was brought home before dawn, badly injured, but I'm sure if he'd known he was going to disturb your sleep, Garrett, he'd have made it later."

Turning his back on Harlan, Murdoch stood over Johnny's inert form and looked him over. His son was almost as pale as the bed sheets and he breathed in disturbingly shallow breaths.

Scott looked up from where he was sitting and caught his father's eye. "You watch him while I get dressed?" he asked. "I'll get Grandfather started with breakfast." As he stood, Johnny stirred and his eyelids raised slightly, just enough for the blue of his eyes to be visible.

The wounded man blinked rapidly as he tried to focus, but suddenly his eyes squeezed shut, his hands rising to press his palms against his temples. He emitted a moan, but when Scott tried to apply a cool cloth to his head, Johnny pushed him away. It took several minutes for the pain to recede, but eventually his body lost some of its tension and he slowly lowered his hands. Seemingly disoriented, he looked around, squinting at the sunlight that flooded into the room.

Murdoch drew the long curtains over the French doors to block the light but left the doors open. Later in the day the room would be kept cool by the shade of the tree just outside the door.

"Where'm I?" Johnny whispered.

Scott explained that he was in the guest bedroom, wondering if the blow to Johnny's head had affected him more than they had first realized.

With great care, Johnny turned his head to look around the room, stopping at the sight of Harlan, still stationed in the doorway.

Scott's grandfather just stared back at him.

Murdoch said, "Johnny, I have to look at the wound back here, so I need to move you onto your stomach. That's it, just a little bit more." He aided Johnny to roll slightly forward, stopping for a moment when his son stiffened. Even though Johnny clenched his teeth against the intense pain the movement brought, no more than a slight groan escaped from his lips. Very carefully, Murdoch peeled back the edge of the bandage to check the condition of the wound.

Johnny flinched at his father's touch, but he never took his eyes off Harlan Garrett.

Murdoch took a clean, folded cloth that Scott offered, and cleaned away the blood around the wound to gauge if it was still bleeding heavily. He looked up from what he was doing to see Johnny's hands gripping the bedding, his teeth biting into his lower lip. Finally the job was done, the bloodstained bandages replaced. Murdoch wiped his hands, asking, "Scott, have we got anything to give him? To keep him until the doctor arrives?"

Johnny was trembling slightly, his face stoic as he focused with wide eyes on something across the room.

Scott asked, "Laudanum? We haven't any as far as I know. Teresa, can you check in the medicine cabinet?"

Murdoch waited until she had left on the errand to suggest to Scott, "Maybe he can tell us what happened to him. He seems to be alert at the moment."

"Johnny, tell us what happened," Scott demanded. When he got no response, he looked closely at Johnny for a sign he was listening, then followed the direction of his brother's gaze. He glanced back at Johnny to make sure, but there was little doubt that his intense gaze was focused on the older man standing on the threshold. It was plain to see that Johnny's eyes, at first dark with the pain he was enduring, had changed. The blue eyes were now full of hatred.

Harlan Garrett appeared uncomfortable, dabbing at his mouth with his handkerchief, but then he straightened his shoulders and regained his composure. Without a word, he turned on his heel and left.

~ • ~

"Scott, this bandage I used isn't heavy enough. There's still blood seeping out. Hand me that cloth over there. Yes, that's the one." Murdoch took the folded bandage and tucked it under the binding that was wrapped tightly around Johnny's waist. Even though he was as gentle as he could be, Johnny cried out, rearing back as agony drove through him like a spike. The motion caused more pain to erupt, and his eyes rolled back under his lids as he blacked out.

Murdoch quickly reached out, holding onto his son's body to prevent him from falling off the bed. He cursed the men who had hurt his boy and vowed to bring them to justice if it was the last thing he did.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	5. Chapter 5

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CHAPTER 5 - THE INFORMANT

Fastidiously wiping his hands clean on a towel, Dr. Mendez entered the great room. He settled in a comfortable chair and thanked Scott for a whiskey when it was promptly handed to him. Before giving the waiting men Johnny's prognosis, he took a much-needed sip of the pale amber liquid. Peering at the anxious looks on the faces of the Lancer men, Dr. Mendez announced, "Gentlemen, my diagnosis is that Johnny will live."

Murdoch gave a sigh of relief and clasped the doctor's hand. With overstated care, Scott placed the bottle on a table within the doctor's reach, then perched on the arm of a nearby leather chair. "Let's hear the rest of it."

"He's lost a lot of blood," said Mendez. He stretched his arms, then relaxed into the chair with a grunt. "That's the worst of it. I prescribe you feed him on beef broth and warm ox blood soup to renew his vigor. Build up his blood again. It will take time, but. . . "

"His head took a heavy blow," Murdoch said with concerned.

"Hmm, not life-threatening. A slight concussion, perhaps. The wound to his scalp isn't as bad as it looks. I cleaned the area but it didn't even need any stitches. His wrist isn't sprained, but the arm is badly bruised. He won't be using that hand for a while." He sighed. "What else? Oh yes, his neck is bruised, as well as his ribs. Nothing broken, which is amazing considering the blunt force that was used."

Scott asked sharply, "And the knife wound?" He had assisted the doctor, but most of the time he had refrained from looking at the procedure. Seeing the needle piercing his brother's flesh and watching the heavy thread drawn through the edges of the rough-edged, gaping wound was almost too much for him. Images of battle-torn men had come unbidden to his mind. Luckily, either the pain or the laudanum had rendered Johnny unconscious throughout the operation.

"Yes, well . . . that's not so good. Although the blade didn't hit anything vital as far as I can tell, it is nasty. It wouldn't have bled so much if…" Dr. Mendez ran a hand over his face. He was dead on his feet, but this was his last call before heading home. He was glad he only lived a few miles down the road. He'd have to remember to ask the Lancers to loan him a fresh horse before his buggy nag expired from overwork.

When the doctor took his time pouring himself another drink, Scott said defensively, "Amos Whipple and the sheriff tied a makeshift bandage around the wound and got Johnny here as fast as they could. We staunched the bleeding as soon as we got him inside. We did what we could."

"They should have left him in town, if that's where they found him." Mendez cast an exasperated look at the Lancer men, then softened at their looks of remorse. "Gentlemen, Johnny is still alive due to your care. He's one lucky young man." The doctor hesitated then added, "Look, I don't know what kind of man would harm another in this manner. I've seen plenty of terrible things in my practice, but this knifing was the act of a very vindictive person."

"What do you mean?" Murdoch lifted the whiskey decanter to pour himself a glassful, but stopped in mid-action. "What makes this worse than any other knifing?"

"From what I can see, the blade wasn't just stuck in your boy's back." The doctor made a jabbing motion. "Whoever stabbed him," he explained as he demonstrated a vicious screwing motion, "twisted the blade as well. He sure wanted to cause as much damage as possible, using a serrated blade. Good thing the angle was off. Missed any vital organs, though. If your boy hadn't been discovered right away, and received care, he'd have bled to death within a short time."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Teresa sat on a bench under a big tree that cast its shade across the patio, enjoying the tranquil sound of gently trickling water from the fountain. She was trying to knit using four needles but kept dropping one needle or another, losing stitches. She glanced up occasionally to keep an eye on Johnny, asleep in his temporary bedroom. A light afternoon breeze stirred the curtains of the open French doors, affording her a view of his sleeping form.

Jelly had brought the doctor back with him hours ago. They had made her leave the room when they worked on Johnny, but she had heard his cries of pain, even through the thick hacienda walls. The doctor must have given Johnny something to quiet him because he had been sleeping soundly ever since.

She retrieved a wooden knitting needle that had dropped to the flagstones and rolled under the hem of her skirt. She was about to pick up the stitches again, but a movement in the bedroom alerted her that Johnny had regained consciousness. Moving his legs restlessly under the sheet, he weakly called out Scott's name. As she quickly rose to go to his side, galloping horses rapidly approach the house. It looked like the sheriff, accompanied by another, unfamiliar man. Dropping her knitting into its bag next to the bench, she went in to tend to Johnny.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"What do you mean you lost them?" Scott faced Sheriff Stillwater. He hadn't intended to shout at the man, but his frustration had got the better of him. "You're supposed to be the best tracker around here."

Jelly held up his hands to halt Scott's angry words. "Just listen to him, will ya?"

Stillwater's eyes narrowed at Scott's stinging words. "You want to hire yourself an Indian tracker, well, you're free to do so. I'll gladly take any help I can get, but I aim to run down these men even if I have to do it on my own."

Murdoch cut in, "Do you know who these men are, Sheriff? Drifters?"

"Hard to say. Nobody seems to know who they are. Could have come in off the range, been let go when they got their cattle to the railhead. Seen some wranglers passing through recently, headin' back to Texas after deliverin' their herds." He pulled a revolver from the back of his belt and handed it to Murdoch. "I recovered this, on the street, not far from where your boy was bushwacked."

Murdoch accepted the gun and verified it was Johnny's. It was disturbing to realize that his son, always so alert to danger, had been disarmed.

Scott reached out and took the six-gun from his father, staring at it as if it could tell them what had occurred.

Stillwater said, "As soon as I get back to Morro Coyo, I'll find the folks who were at the saloon last night and see what they know."

"So you don't know who they are," accused Scott angrily, "and you don't know where they went." He held out Johnny's gun. "Don't you understand? My brother would never give up his sidearm. These men attacked him from behind. They're the lowest form-"

"Now you calm down, Scott. There's more to tell you." The sheriff removed his hat, wiping his brow. "I couldn't trail those two men that attacked Johnny in the dark, but I searched in the direction I figured they'd headed. When daylight came and there was no sign of them, I headed over here to see if some of your men could join me in tracking them." Indicating the man standing in the entryway, he explained, "That's when I met Señor Rinaldo on the road."

Murdoch motioned for the man to join them and offered his hand in welcome. "Rinaldo." He knew the man only slightly. Rinaldo and his family ran a small ranch on the other side of the valley but he was better known for his fine orchards than for raising cattle. Seemed decent enough, though not the kind to speak aloud at a town meeting.

"I was out on Morro Ridge," Rinaldo said, pointing in a northerly direction. "Early this morning I saw, maybe two miles away, two riders heading for Gunderson's farm."

Scott cut in, "How do you know these are the two men the sheriff is after? They could have been anyone. Maybe one was Gunderson."

Murdoch turned to Scott and clamped a hand on his shoulder. "Give him a chance to say his piece, Scott."

Scott leaned against his father's large desk and crossed his arms.

Rinaldo cleared his throat. "It wasn't until I met the sheriff later that he told me what happened to your son, Mr. Lancer, and I understood what I had seen."

"Go ahead, man," urged the sheriff. "Spit it out."

"Yes, uh, these two men were leading a riderless horse by his reins. I was too far away, you understand, to recognize them."

Murdoch nodded. "Towards Gunderson's."

"But," Rinaldo said, "I recognized the horse they were leading. I'd know him anywhere. It was Johnny Lancer's palomino, Barranca."

Scott immediately strode across the room to the coat tree and grabbed his gun belt. As he briskly buckled it up Murdoch moved to his side. "You can't just go off half-cocked, Scott."

Turning on his father, the blond man pointed in the direction of Johnny's bedroom. "My brother is lying back there, mighty close to dying, while the men - the animals - who cut into him are getting away! Don't you even suggest that I not go."

"Easy, easy, son," Murdoch said as he raised a calming hand. "I was just going to suggest that you take my Sharps rifle and some extra ammo." He smiled grimly. "I'll hand-pick the men to ride with you and have them ready in five minutes."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Scott decided to take a moment to slip into Johnny's room. There was no time to waste, yet he couldn't leave without having a last look in on his brother.

On his way down the hall he passed Harlan Garrett. Catching hold of Scott's sleeve, the old man said tersely, "If you're going to look for trouble on account of this half-breed half-brother of yours then I'm going to be very displeased, Scottie."

Scott stopped only long enough to remove the grip on his arm. "Damned right I'm going looking for trouble, Grandfather." Closing the bedroom door behind him, he shut out Harlan's irate face. He carefully sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at his sleeping brother. To him, Johnny would never be a half-brother. Johnny never did anything by halves.

Scott surveyed the damaged face that was framed by a wide, white strip of bandage across the forehead. There were wisps of dark hair, caught by the bandage, sticking damply to his face. Much of the hair on the top of Johnny's head was standing up as if it was trying to escape. Whatever Teresa had applied to the bruised eye seemed to have taken some of the swelling down, yet it was severely discolored. A massive bruise had appeared on the side of his neck and there was congealed blood in one damaged ear.

Johnny's lips moved then his eyes opened. They slowly focused on Scott, then suddenly widened as he became alert. He opened his mouth to speak but his first attempt only brought forth a dry rasping noise. He gave a slight cough, swallowed and winced, a hand going to his ribs. "You . . . goin' after them." Johnny had spoken the words, not as a question, but as a certainty.

Scott had decided not to tell Johnny where he was going, only because he wanted to spare his brother the unnecessary worry. He considered lying about his plans but Johnny was watching him too closely. "What makes you think I'm going after anyone?" Scott asked.

"Man walks different when he's . . . he's packing a full load," he replied, smiling slightly at Scott's surprised look.

"If you can tell that when you're lying here, wounded and barely conscious," Scott asked carefully, "how is it that you let someone sneak up on you?"

Johnny tried to raise his head a bit, but the pain drove him back onto the pillows. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then took a breath and looked back at Scott. "I was goin' home." He spoke in a near whisper, but the room was so quiet that his words were clear. "Been playing for some time with 'em. Drinkin'. Other men, too. We went . . . dance hall for a while. Back to cards. Nice enough fellows." He stopped to cough and Scott fetched him some water. Johnny drank a little, then continued, his left hand pressing to his wounded side, looking paler by the minute. "Late. Had enough. These two jus' left wi' me. . . laughin'. Carousin'. Then my head got hit so hard I saw stars."

"These men got names?"

"Um . . .Macon . . . other called . . ." Scott thought that was all that Johnny could recall, but suddenly he blurted, "Flanagan. He was called Flanagan I think. They . . . robbed me."

Scott said, "Your pockets were empty, but if it was only a robbery why would they beat you, Johnny?" And why knife you so brutally, he asked silently.

Johnny shook his head. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but the lids were too heavy. "So I couldn't go after 'em? They held me. . . one was behind me. . . I don' 'member much else. My gun was gone when I . . . reached for it." He suddenly opened his eyes wide. "Barranca!"

"It's all right, Johnny. He's been spotted and we're on our way to bring him home." He didn't add - and bring the men to justice - but it must have been clearly visible in his eyes because his brother looked at him sharply.

"Jus' don't turn your back on anyone," Johnny warned as he closed his eyes.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	6. Chapter 6

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CHAPTER 6 - THE CHASE

When Scott mounted his horse, he was glad to see several of Lancer's best vaqueros armed and ready to ride with him. Rinaldo, despite his apparent timid character, was jockeying for a position in the front of the posse, close to the sheriff.

Scott was impatient to begin the hunt, even though the two men they were going after, Macon and Flanagan, had already proven to be dangerous. After a short discussion, the consensus was that the two men might be making for the rocky ravines just to the north in an attempt to lose any pursuers. But the Gunderson's homestead was sitting right in the way.

Scott fervently hoped that the men they were after had skirted the spread of the hard-working Scandinavian immigrants. "They know they're being pursued and they'll be on the lookout for fresh mounts," he said to the sheriff. "Once they're into those hills, they'll be out of our reach."

"These hard-cases will be in a hurry and they'll most likely be riding the shortest route - right through Gunderson's land," replied the sheriff. "Let's hope they don't look to hole up there, what with his pretty wife and all them kids around. We don't know what they're capable of."

Scott looked back at the hacienda, his expression harsh. "I think we have a good idea of what level they'll stoop to. If they have any sense they will just keep going, but if they don't know the lay of the land, they may stop at the farm."

"Then we'd better not waste any more time jawing," Stillwater said, kicking his large bay into a canter.

When they reached the Lancer gate, the posse members held back their mounts and waited until Scott rode to the front of the posse. He led the way in the direction of Gunderson's. The Lancer vaqueros, men with faces as hard as stone, fell in behind.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

From up on the ridge the Gunderson's white ranch house and large gray barn, surrounded by fields of growing crops, were plain to see. There was no sign of activity below; there was nobody laboring in the fields, no women hanging washing, no children running around in play. The place was deserted, with the barn doors gaping open and only a couple of draft horses standing idly in the small corral.

Scott felt his gut tighten and his senses sharpen, just as they had before skirmishes during the war. He glanced to his left and saw the riders fan out as they picked their way down the hillside. To his right the only man in plain sight was Isidro, who was skillfully guiding his mount down a rough gully.

As Scott urged his horse through the last of the scrubby trees that provided cover and rode onto the open field, a muffled shot rang out from the direction of the house, accompanied by a scream.

The horsemen burst out of the underbrush and spurred their mounts forward, reacting with the speed and precision of a cavalry unit. With abandon they galloped within yards of the house and jumped from their saddles before their horses had even skidded to a halt. Their guns drawn, they rushed to take positions around the building's perimeter. The sheriff ran in a crouch towards to the front door and flattened himself against the wall of the porch, revolver at the ready. "This is Sheriff Stillwater!" he bellowed. "Toss out your guns or we come in shootin'!"

Scott was about to leap off his horse near the open doors of the barn when two riders burst out of the darkness within and lunged straight for him. His horse reared and almost unseated him. In the time it took him to regain control, the men had dashed past. They shot wildly at the posse as they veered across the field, their bullets going wide. Drawing his rifle, Scott steadied his shying animal and took aim at the receding figures. He got off one shot and without waiting to see if he'd hit either of them, he whipped his horse in pursuit. Although the two men had sped past in a blur of flying manes and bullets, Scott had recognized one of their mounts as Barranca.

A glance back at the farmhouse told him that the sheriff was supporting a wounded woman as she collapsed on the porch, and several of the Lancer vaqueros were scrambling for their horses. The image of the woman's crimson-stained dress stayed with Scott as he followed the outlaws. Slapping the horse with its reins, he leaned into its straining neck, riding faster than he'd ever ridden before. His only thought was that he would get those men, catch them and make them pay for what they'd done to his brother and to that woman back at the farmhouse.

The ground underfoot soon became uneven, rough with rocky outcrops, so Scott had to slow his pace or risk breaking his neck, or that of his steed. He could see the backs of the two men he was pursuing now and then, just glimpses through the trees or when he rode heedlessly over a rise. Sure that he was gaining on them, he pushed his horse to its limits, recklessly jumping a wide ditch, pulling the animal's head back up when the horse landed badly. Scott had to use all the horsemanship skills he'd honed while in the cavalry just to stay in the saddle.

At some point he became aware that there was another rider coming up behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him it was Isidro. The vaquero grinned, his teeth bared with the excitement of the chase. There was another rider so far back that he was not recognizable; the rest of the posse was not even in sight.

The fleeing men, Macon and Flanagan, were now visible. They had slowed a little as they whipped their horses up a steep trail that cut between rocky outcrops. The man riding Barranca was in the lead. Scott was surprised that the palomino hadn't thrown the unfamiliar rider, as he was a handful and usually tolerated only Johnny on his back. His own experiences riding Barranca had given him a respect for the willful animal as well as for anyone who could ride him.

Concentrating on the unsure footing, Scott picked the best path up the trail for his flagging animal. Isidro yelled from behind, "Look out!" A bullet whined past Scott's ear, then lead slammed into the rock face. A sliver hit his cheek with a sharp sting. He ducked his head close to his horse's neck but kept going, pulling out his holstered revolver. Fearful his brother's attackers would get away, Scott let off two shots in quick succession. There was a cry from one of the men as the two riders disappeared over the top of the ridge.

"The trail narrows up ahead," called Isidro from close on his heels. "Dangerous."

Scott looked over his shoulder and for a fleeting second met the eyes of his father's segundo. There was no doubt from the broad grin that the man was enjoying the pursuit. "It missed your eye?" Isidro pointed to Scott's face.

Slapping his hand to his cheek, Scott discovered he was bleeding from the chunk of flying stone. "Didn't feel a thing," he said, and smiled grimly in return. He kicked his horse up the last bit of slope, keeping his gun at the ready in case the men ahead were planning to bushwhack them.

When he cautiously led the way over the rise, Scott clearly made out the two men riding in single file, not fifty yards ahead on the narrow trail. There was a steep wall of rock rising up to their left and a boulder-strewn drop to their right. Both the quarry and the pursuers had to cautiously pick their way along the treacherous track. With a haul on the reins, Scott brought his horse to a stop. He holstered his revolver, then quickly reached down and pulled his father's Sharps rifle out of its scabbard. He took careful aim and bellowed, "Halt or I will shoot!"

The man taking up the rear, riding a rangy roan, let off a shot at his pursuers, missing by a wide margin.

"Last chance," Scott yelled. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Isidro alongside him, pulling his own rifle from its sheath and to his shoulder in one smooth action. The trail was so narrow there was barely enough room for the two horses side by side, and their shoulders jostled each other, threatening to push Scott over the edge. Oblivious to the nervous shifting of the horse under him, Scott drew a bead on one of the men and let off a round at the same time Isidro fired. The sound was deafening and echoed off the walls of the ravine. Scott had to use his spurs to prevent his skittish horse from backing off the trail.

The man at the rear took at least one bullet and fell off his horse, arms flying in the air as he hit the dust. There wasn't enough room for his frightened, riderless horse to get past Barranca, but it tried anyway, lunging forward. Disaster loomed as the horses collided. Barranca whinnied, kicked out with his hind legs when the horse crowded him from behind, then spilled off his unwanted rider. The man fell hard, tumbling out of sight down the steep ravine, accompanied by a slew of dislodged rocks. There was a scream, cut off abruptly, then silence except for the clattering of loose gravel.

Isidro dismounted and ran past the loose roan to the still figure lying on the trail. He briskly removed the man's weapons before he checked for signs of life. "Dead," he said. Glancing back, he was alarmed to see Scott poised at the top of the ravine. As he opened his mouth to call out a warning to stay away from the edge, Scott dropped out of sight. Isidro rushed to look over the precipice. He saw the top of Scott's blond head as the young man recklessly scrambled down the steep slope.

Scott wasn't about to listen to him, but Isidro shouted, "You break your neck and your old man will have my cajones for supper." Barranca turned his head at the familiar voices and allowed Isidro to take up his loose reins.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Though barely able to stay on his feet, his boot heels slipping on the loose gravel, Scott made for the man who lay wedged between some boulders halfway down the hill. He slowed down his perilous descent by grasping rocks and the few stunted trees that somehow survived on this rocky slope. He didn't know whether this one was Macon or Flanagan. All he cared about was that he had been successful at running him down. He skidded the last few feet and grabbed the trunk of a small tree to come to a halt beside the man he'd been pursuing.

Breathing hard from exertion, Scott looked down at the man who had been riding Barranca. Surprisingly, the man was alive and squinting up at him. "It appears," said Scott, "that you have met your match."

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	7. Chapter 7

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CHAPTER 7 - THE GAMBLE

Frederick Macon had found luck to be on his side through all of his twenty years. He'd always been a skilled gambler, so playing poker with the intention of losing to Johnny Lancer had been sort of hard for him to swallow. He'd enjoyed play-acting, though, in order to trick Johnny into believing they were friends. He and his pal Flanagan had recently been fired from the Texas outfit they'd been working for, and when the offer had come along to waylay Lancer they had jumped at it. A little rough stuff was all in a day's work for the pair of them and the promise of a hefty payout just sweetened the deal.

Aware they needed to gain the upper hand over Johnny Lancer, and cautious of his expertise with a sidearm, they had encouraged the ex-gunfighter to drink with them. Macon recalled his Pa saying a man like Lancer was a curly wolf, someone to sidestep unless you wanted a heap of trouble. They'd even strong-armed one of the new dance hall gals at the Rialto Saloon into getting Lancer to toss back a few tequilas with her, and he'd never suspected a thing.

After a night of cards and carousing, Macon and Flanagan had easily waylaid their target on his way to his horse. Lancer hadn't been drunk, but his senses had been dulled, that was for sure. It was almost regretful, he thought, 'cause he'd taken to this fellow. Johnny had been full of good humor and hadn't been shy about sharing his good fortune and had bought more than one round of drinks from his winnings.

And the horse they'd stolen from him. . . my, what a fine animal the palomino was, though troublesome, full of piss and vinegar. The horse had tried to buck him off at first, but a good whipping, plenty of spur and a firm hand had brought the animal begrudgingly under control.

But Macon had been thrown off the palomino and now he lay on a rocky slope half way down the ravine. He was unable to move anything but his arms and even that small movement hurt like hell. The back of his head was jammed between a couple of rocks but he couldn't feel much else.

A man's shadow loomed over him, blocking out the hot sun. The face that hovered over him had such a grim expression that Macon's gut clenched in fear. He raised his hands in his own defense, expecting to be struck. He knew he didn't have a chance. His luck had run out.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"You'd better speak up, man," Scott advised tersely. "Your friend is in no shape to help you out."

"Get me on my feet, then," Macon demanded, even as his right hand sneaked towards his gun belt. Dismayed to discover his .45 was no longer in its holster, he reached around blindly for it, but a boot heel jammed down on his hand. He screamed.

Scott leaned over and pulled the half-hidden gun out from under Macon's body, eliciting another cry of pain from the near-helpless man. Scott hesitated. Even with a coating of dust on the man's battered face, and blood on his mashed lips, it was obvious he was young. There was considerable fear behind the defiance in his eyes.

"What's your name and where are you from?" asked Scott.

"Macon. I ain't from nowhere. What's it to you?" Macon spat out a mouthful of blood and a tooth, instantly regretting doing so when agony coursed through his chest.

Macon looked pitiful lying on the ground all broken up, but Scott hardened himself. "You're going to die out here, alone except for the buzzards, unless you tell me where you got that palomino, Mr. Macon. And don't tell me some tall tale because it won't wash. That's my brother's horse and I know for a fact that Johnny would have never loaned him to anyone." He removed the pressure of his boot from the man's hand and stood straight. "Never to someone like you, that's for sure."

"I found him running loose-"

Grabbing a fistful of the man's shirtfront, Scott shook him. "I am known as a patient man, but right now my own friends wouldn't recognize me. You and your friend bushwacked my brother back in town, and I want to know why," he growled. "Was it a robbery? Johnny must have trusted you or you would never have gotten away with it." He shook the man again.

Macon head jerked back and struck the rocky ground. He yelped, then twisted to locate his buddy, but his eyes widened when he realized how far off the trail he'd fallen. "Flanagan. . ." he called out weakly.

"Why did you attack my brother?" Scott asked roughly.

His face hardening in response, Macon spat at the man holding onto his shirt. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

Scott released him and called up to Isidro, "Shoot that man in the leg, Isidro."

Isidro started to protest, "But Senor! El hombre-"

"For once, just do as I say," Scott ordered. Another man appeared beside the Lancer vaquero on the trail above. It was Mr. Rinaldo, a small figure compared to the bulk of Isidro. He perched on the edge of the precipice and looked down at Scott straddling his victim.

"Isidro, you hear me? I want you to put a bullet in Mr. Flanagan every time Mr. Macon here doesn't answer me straight. Commence with the right kneecap." Isidro started to shout down a response but Rinaldo put a hand on his arm and said something to the vaquero that Scott couldn't hear. The two men moved back out of sight and Scott turned his attention back to Macon. "Why did you attack my brother?"

Macon, his mouth agape, stared at Scott. "We didn't do nothing! All we did was play some cards in town, Mister-."

Scott raised his arm and signaled Isidro. A couple of seconds later, a shot rang out, its echo resounding up the ravine. A scream of agony came from the trail above them. The injured man at Scott's feet gave a strangled cry of disbelief. "Next question," Scott said harshly. "Did you attack Johnny of your own volition or did someone set it up for you?"

"I swear I don't know what you're talking about-"

Scott lifted one hand and Macon cried out, "No! No, don't shoot Flanagan again! I'll tell you," he sobbed. "I'll tell you, just please… please don't…just give me a chance. . . "

"Did you give my brother a chance? Or did you and that piece of filth lying up there take him down from behind? I know Johnny and he's not the kind to get suckered. If he hadn't trusted you, you'd be dead already."

"Don't you hurt Flanagan no more," Macon begged. He coughed, his face scrunching up with pain. One hand gripped his chest, another warded off Scott. "We didn't mean him any real harm," he started. "We played poker with him. Had a few drinks, some laughs-."

His jaw clenching, Scott signaled Isidro with a sharp gesture of his arm. There was another report from a gun, its echo mingling with a horrible scream. Macon's eyes closed, a moan issuing from his lips at the sound. Relentlessly, Scott pursued. " Tell me what happened to Johnny Lancer back in Morro Coyo. Who hired you?"

Macon ran his tongue across his parched lips. "I don't know. I didn't take the job. It was Flanagan. All I know is we was paid to get the guy drunk and take him out back. Told to soften him up, is all."

Scott remained expressionless as he forced himself to refrain from striking Macon. "Someone did a sight more than beat up Johnny. He was stabbed - in the back. You aim to tell me that's your way of repaying my brother for playing poker with you? Who told you to attack him? And no more lies."

Swallowing hard, Macon relented. "Flan said it was an older fellow with money. I didn't even have a knife. I didn't stab him, Mister, I didn't! We only held his arms. . . "

"What did this older fellow look like?"

"I told you," Macon whined, "I didn't see him-"

"You were holding my brother for him," Scott said angrily. He wasn't sure how much longer he could restrain himself. All he wanted to do was hurt this man - badly, and he couldn't see past it.

Macon had a coughing fit, one hand running across his mouth. It flopped back weakly to his side. "He was wearing a big old duster, all stained, like a drover's. He looked rich, even with that rig on and a black Stetson. I never got his name. His eyes were cold. You gotta believe me!"

"You're both the worst kind of men, Macon. You took payment for harming a man you didn't even know. You left him to die and stole his horse, then did worse to the Gundersons. . . " Scott choked on his words. He had to turn away for a minute.

Isidro called down, "You want me to shoot this one more, Senor?"

"Not right now," called Scott. "But I haven't finished yet."

"Just get me to a horse," pleaded Macon. "You'll never see me again, I promise. I'll go. . ."

"I've always been a live and let live kind of man, but what you two have done surmounts on the unforgivable. It goes against the grain for me to lift a finger to give you any ease, but I have to do it or I know I'll find my actions come back to haunt me." Scott took a deep breath. "I might just take the risk and put an end to your miserable life, and take whatever consequences that follow." He leaned over again and grabbed Macon's shirtfront, raising him off his rocky bed by a few inches. "It's not up to me, though, is it? The sheriff isn't far behind and he'll be the one to drag you in for justice. Don't you think maybe we should keep you alive long enough so you can be hanged, nice and legal?"

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Isidro and Rinaldo watched Scott scramble up the slope. When the blond man had almost reached the trail, they put out helping hands and pulled him up the last rough section. Looking down the ravine, Isidro asked, "We going to get him up? I have enough rope, perhaps, if tied with your riata."

Without even looking down to where Macon lay unmoving within the grasp of two boulders, Scott ordered, "We ride back to Lancer."

"But these two men-" started Isidro. He indicated Flanagan, whose body was now adorned with two bullets holes.

Cutting off his father's segundo, Scott said harshly, "They're both dead. There's no point wasting time with them. My only concern now is my brother. Let's ride for home."

Rinaldo came forward and handed Scott Barranca's reins. "Mr. Lancer, if you want to ride your brother's horse, I will use your horse and the other one they rode to take the bodies back to town." He pointed down the trail in the direction they had come. "Here comes more of our posse. They will help me take care of this buzzard meat." He spat in derision at the body lying on the trail.

Scott glanced over his shoulder to see two men riding up the trail, along with the sheriff, then looked back at Rinaldo. Slowly he reached out to shake the man's hand. "I'd appreciate that, Mr. Rinaldo." He mounted Johnny's palomino and once it was clear the horse had accepted him, he lengthened the stirrup leathers.

Isidro eased his horse past the oncoming posse members. Scott followed but pulled back on Barranca's reins after only a few feet. Turning in the saddle, he called back to the helpful Rinaldo, "You know, those screams of yours were pretty convincing."

Rinaldo removed the lariat from his saddle horn and started to unwind it. "The least I could do to help. Too bad this one was already dead." He touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. "You tell Mr. Johnny Lancer to get better real soon, okay?"

In response, Scott gave a crisp salute, with his palm outward and his elbow raised high, then rode for home.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	8. Chapter 8

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CHAPTER 8 - THE DISTRACTION

Johnny remained quiet all morning, sleeping most of the time. He was roused by Murdoch after midday and coerced into taking some nourishment.

"I guess I can eat something." Johnny touched the bandage wrapped around his head. "This is scratchy. Get it off, will ya?"

Even though he was sure the doctor would frown on it, Murdoch agreed to remove the bandage. "Just be careful how you lay your head down. You have quite a dent on the back of your skull."

Johnny instinctively reached up and touched the back of his head, finding it very tender. "My brains are still in there?"

"Time will tell," Murdoch replied, keeping a straight face. He was relieved to see his son had regained some color and appeared to be somewhat stronger than expected. Nevertheless, Johnny seemed disinterested in what was going on, not even asking about Scott and the pursuit of the men who had attacked him.

With his father's assistance, Johnny was slowly raised in bed to a half-sitting position. When the wounded man made an incautious move that brought forth a gasp, Murdoch winced in sympathy. Between clenched teeth Johnny grunted, "Gimme a minute." With closed eyes he slowly regained control as Murdoch supported his rigid body. "Get me another pillow and I'll be fine."

Finally propped up against the pillows, Johnny held a bowl of weak-looking beef soup on his lap and used his left hand to eat. It was a slow process but he managed on his own.

Instead of hovering, Murdoch went to the kitchen for some bread. He took his time, aware that Johnny wouldn't want to be watched while eating, especially with his clumsy left-handed use of the spoon. He returned and shared a soft roll with his son, sitting on a window seat to eat his portion.

When Johnny had eaten as much as he could handle, Murdoch perched on the edge of the bed. He asked, "You feel up to telling me about what happened last night?" Johnny just stared at the empty bowl still sitting on his lap, so Murdoch removed it and said firmly, "We need to get to the bottom of this, son."

"I just played poker." Johnny leaned back carefully against his pillows, exhausted. "Didn't expect to get broadsided over some card game."

"Were these men you were playing with regulars?"

"Some were. A couple of guys, the ones I told you about, Macon and, uh Flanagan. . . we went over to the dance hall for a spell. Then back to the saloon for some more cards."

"Did you win all of their money? Anything to cause them to come after you?"

"No, no, nothing like that. They weren't sore losers. . . they seemed. . . okay." Johnny looked uncomfortable. "They sure had me fooled. You know me, always keepin' one eye open in the back of my head. . . but I just didn't see it comin'."

Teresa entered, bearing a small brown medicine bottle. She had overheard what Johnny had just related. Taking up a spoon, she poured a dose and pushed it into Johnny's mouth before he had a chance to resist. "One of the cowards hit you from behind with a chunk of wood." She scowled. "I'm just sorry I'm not with the posse, running those men to ground. I'd show them they can't get away with hurting anyone in my family."

Johnny smiled for the first time that morning. "You'd be out in front, I'll lay a wager." At her adamant nod, he chuckled fondly, but as his thoughts turned to Scott and the danger his brother would be facing when leading the posse, Johnny grew serious again.

Murdoch pointed out, "You know, it's odd, but you still had cash in your pocket."

Johnny raised his eyebrows. "Well, I've been shot at for a lot less." He started to raise his right arm and thought better of it. With his left, he reached over to explore his right side, grimacing when he touched the heavily bandaged wound. "I got no idea why they did this, but the sheriff scared them away before they got a chance to finish me off. I'm lucky." He settled further down on his pillows with a sigh.

Murdoch got up and wandered idly around the room until Johnny told his father to get on with the running of the ranch. "I don't need no wet nurse," he insisted.

"You sure?" Murdoch asked even as he looked longingly at the world outside the open patio doors.

"I'll stay close," Teresa said. She smiled as she applied a cool, damp cloth to Johnny's bruised eye.

Johnny took the cloth from Teresa's hand and held it in place himself. He said, in an offhand way, "Watchin' me heal is sorta like watchin' sap run on a cold day."

"Well," said Murdoch, "I'm just glad you're safe here at home and on the road to recovery. If you need anything, just holler, or better yet, let Teresa holler." He patted Johnny's knee, gently, and left him to rest.

Teresa sat on a bench on the patio, able to keep an eye on the patient through the open French doors as she worked at her knitting. Late that afternoon, she took a break from watching over Johnny. First she quietly entered his bedroom and tucked in the stiff wool blanket in the hope it would stop him from rolling over in his sleep. He moved his head on the pillow but did not awaken.

A trip to the water closet, and then to the kitchen to get a fresh pitcher of water and to make up a tray of food took longer than she anticipated. When she returned to the guest room, the door was not only closed, but it was locked.

Placing the tray on a hall table, Teresa jiggled the door handle then peered through the keyhole. She could see very little of the room itself; it was dimly lit because she had drawn the curtains to help Johnny sleep. She knocked lightly and called out to Johnny, but there was no reply, no sound at all.

There wasn't anyone around to call for assistance, with Murdoch and Jelly out working somewhere beyond the barn, and Maria not yet returned from her siesta. Harlan Garrett had said he was going to take a nap upstairs, but Teresa was very reluctant to call him in any case.

Even if Johnny had been able to rise from his bed, there was no reason she could think of that he would lock the door. Concerned, Teresa walked the length of the hall and had to take a circuitous route through the kitchen's back door in order to gain entry from the patio. Her steps gained speed as worry consumed her.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

With Scott riding Barranca, he and Isidro urged their horses in the direction of Lancer. Scott had decided it would be best if they returned home for fresh mounts before setting out again. There would still be time to ride into Morro Coyo to question the locals about the previous night before it got late. He was anxious to see how Johnny was doing and wanted to relate the latest news to his father.

As they came down the rocky trail that the two desperados had died upon, Scott and Isidro met the sheriff and some members of the posse on their way up. Scott gave the sheriff only the barest of details about the pursuit and capture of the now-deceased quarry. Sheriff Stillwater didn't press him for any more information, and the other men exchanged knowing glances among themselves, accepting that Scott had done what was necessary.

"We'll go help Rinaldo with the carcasses of those men, then," the sheriff said. He touched the brim of his hat and passed Scott, the posse trailing along.

Scott and his father's segundo stopped at the Gunderson's farmhouse only long enough to make sure that was everything under control. Mrs. Gunderson appeared to have recovered from the shock of the assault on her home and family and was busy taking care of her husband. The big Scandinavian farmer looked like he had a shattered arm from one of the attacker's bullets. The two Lancer vaqueros who had stayed with the Gundersons informed Scott that the doctor had been sent for.

The children were all safe, even if traumatized, as their mother had hidden them in the root cellar before the men had forced their way into the house. Mrs. Gunderson left her husband's side to talk to Scott on the porch before he rode out. "I was hanging out washing. Out back, you see," she said softly, her eyes downcast. "I saw two men come across the field. Don't ask me how I knew, but I could see they were up to no good." She raised her eyes to meet Scott's squarely. "I rang the bell. It is our sign for trouble. The children, they know what to do. They went to the cellar right away, and Gus, he came in from the barn." Her eyes teared up. "They just shot him, no warning," she cried. "What will we do now? My man cannot plow with one arm." She folded her arms across her chest and sobbed.

Scott reached out to lightly touch her shoulder. "We will help you, Mrs. Gunderson. Don't you worry about anything. We'll send men over from Lancer to help with the chores and I'll arrange for some neighbors to help bear your workload."

"Oh no, no, Mr. Lancer, they have their own ranches to work. We could not ask-."

"We all help each other out here, ma'am. You don't have to ask."

"What if those men. . .? They might come back." Her lips quivered.

Scott looked at her work-worn hands as they wrung the cloth of her apron, stained with her husband's blood. "They won't be hurting anyone again," he assured her.

Her eyes searched Scott's. "You killed them?"

Scott looked down for a moment, then nodded.

"I was taught not to hate anyone, but my heart is glad for that." Ilsa Gunderson raised her apron to dry her eyes and exposed the torn skirt underneath it as well as a smear of blood on her dress. When she saw a look of consternation on Scott Lancer's face she quickly smoothed down her apron with shaking hands. "I must go back to my husband now."

Scott reached out but didn't touch her. "When the doctor arrives, you have him look you over, too, ma'am. Just in case," he added, not unkindly.

She touched her fingers to her lips, then with a furtive glance back to the house, she whispered tersely, "You will not tell my husband." She ran inside and immediately started tending to Gunderson, whose large frame lay outstretched on the kitchen table. Two Lancer vaqueros ran bandages around Gunderson's shoulder and arm while Isidro related to them what had become of the men who had attacked the family.

As Scott mounted Barranca once again, he could see Gus Gunderson through the open front door. The farmer raised his head and managed to weakly lift his good hand in thanks.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Macon hadn't given them much to go on, but Scott planned to be dogged in his pursuit of whoever had engineered the attack on Johnny. He'd ride to town later to join the sheriff in following up on their slim lead. Somewhere in the vicinity there was a man who harbored ill intent towards Johnny Lancer, a man who was last seen wearing an old duster and a black hat. Not much to go on but someone must have seen something, thought Scott.

They would talk to everyone who had been in Morro Coyo the night Johnny had been beaten and stabbed, and Scott determined he would personally interview the drovers in the outfit that had thrown Macon and his pal out on their ears. He wasn't about to rest until he got to the bottom of it; Johnny deserved justice for what they had put him through.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Isidro and Scott rode back to Lancer, speaking very little. They halted for a few moments at a small roadside shrine for Isidro to offer a prayer to Saint Isadore, the patron saint of farmers.

When they rode over the last ridge, they spotted the lights of the hacienda down below, twinkling in the gathering dusk. Scott whipped up the lagging stallion, suddenly anxious to get home.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Harlan Garrett stood over Johnny. The young man in the bed stared up at him with hatred spewing from his eyes. Such intense animosity might have been alarming, but Harlan wanted to see something else in the blue eyes. He wanted to see fear and submission before he finished what he had started.

With the length of his walking stick pressing across Johnny's arms, aided by the heavy blanket that Teresa had thoughtfully tucked in tightly around the wounded man, he was able to effectively pin him down.

Garrett leaned over, exerting his weight on the heavy oak stick with his gloved hands and was satisfied when Johnny's face revealed the pain he was feeling. "You don't like that very much, do you young man?" asked Garrett with a smile. "You're not used to being weak and dependent on others. I can see that. But," he said with a hiss, "you are a burden to Scott, and my grandson shall not be dragged down by south-of-the-border scum like you!"

Johnny gritted his teeth and spat, "Get your stinking hands. . . off me!"

Garrett could see sweat breaking out on Johnny's bruised face. He slid one hand across the blanket to where Johnny's waist appeared to be. Applying pressure, he was rewarded by a grunt and a wince from his victim. "Does that hurt?" Garrett asked with feigned sympathy.

Pain jolted through Johnny's entire body from the added abuse to his wound. He clenched his teeth, determined not to cry out. He struggled to get his hands free, but agonizing shafts of pain were shooting up his arm from his already damaged right wrist, his head was swimming badly and he was deathly afraid he was going to pass out.

Garrett relentlessly bore down. Blood welled from Johnny's wound, soaking the bandages, staining Garrett's white cuff. "My grandson is destined for far bigger things than being a cowpoke on this ranch. He's going to return with me to Boston and there, with his wealth and intelligence, the sky will be the limit. When he's rising to the top, becoming a senator or to a position even higher, you will not be there to distract him or to damage his good name. Do you hear me?"

"You're crazy, you…old…bastard," Johnny gasped as the cruel pressure was applied again. He heaved his body to throw his tormentor off, but despite Garrett's advanced age and slight body, he was wiry and a sight healthier than Johnny was at that moment. The action caused the wounded man more pain than he had thought possible, but he knew it was better to be hurting than dead.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	9. Chapter 9

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 9 - THE KEY

"I'm glad I didn't finish you off back in town," Garrett proclaimed, his face flushed with emotion. "Those dolts couldn't even do the job right and hold you down. I warned them you were trouble. But this is better, much better. Now I can watch you squirm and die slowly under my own hands."

All the pieces fell into place as Johnny remembered the two men - the two friendly guys who had played poker with him - striking him with something heavy, then holding his arms tightly for some nefarious purpose. He'd struggled, oh my how he'd struggled, but before he'd been able to break away he'd been stabbed in the back. The pain had been so intense it had been clarifying. All sound had suddenly been turned off and the faces of the men, wide-eyed with shock as they released him, had been brought sharply into focus.

Even as he'd fallen, he'd twisted, and that was when he'd seen the dark figure hovering over him - a threatening silhouette bearing a knife dripping with blood. His own blood. The alleyway had veered at a crazy angle and he'd watched helplessly as one of the men had mounted Barranca. With one arm reaching out to stop them from stealing his horse, Johnny had passed out. Next thing he knew, he was back at Lancer with his family tending to him.

The whole time, Johnny had never suspected Harlan Garrett of being the man who had tried to murder him. It made sense, in a way, that Scott's grandfather harbored a twisted and misdirected jealous hatred towards him. He even blamed Johnny for preventing Scott from returning to Boston. In return, Johnny'd hated the man ever since he'd coerced Scott into leaving Lancer over a year ago.

Now, even with the panicky knowledge that he had only minutes to live, Johnny felt a stab of pity - not for the old man - but for what Scott would go through when he found out what his grandfather had done. Scott would have a difficult time living with the truth.

There was a sound outside the doorway, the doorknob rattled and then there was a knock. Garret had taken the precaution to lock the door as well as those to the patio as soon as he'd snuck into Johnny's room.

Johnny turned his head to call out to Teresa, but Garrett's gloved hand clamped over his mouth, stifling the weak plea for help. Biting down on the hand, Johnny got one arm free and swung wildly. He scored a hit against Garrett's chest.

Scott's grandfather grunted, staggered, and almost lost the upper hand, but as he regained his balance, he snatched one of the pillows from under Johnny's head. He clamped it over Johnny's face and became so involved in holding it down and avoiding the thrashing arms and legs that it was a couple of minutes before he realized the girl had stopped rattling the doorknob. Garrett knew he didn't have much time before Teresa found her way in, but the struggles of the young man were becoming more feeble as he slowly suffocated.

Johnny desperately tried to get some air, his lungs straining, his cries muffled. Severely hampered by his near-useless right hand and with his wounds screaming out with every movement, he reached out blindly in a last-ditch effort to survive. Finally, he found his attacker's face and gouged at his eyes.

But Garrett slipped out of his grasp and pressed the pillow down more firmly on Johnny's face. "Take this to your grave: Scottie will be so overcome with the death of his bastard half-brother that he will come home with me willingly, and you won't be around to see any of it," he said triumphantly.

Out on the patio, Teresa rattled at the French doors. "Johnny? Johnny! Why is this door locked?"

With waves of noise rushing in his ears, Johnny made a futile attempt to take some air into his lungs. His hands grasped at Garrett, at anything, but even when he managed to catch hold of the man's clothing, he had no strength left. His belly was on fire and his lungs were bursting. Gradually the pain receded and he was overcome by darkness. His arms fell back limply, his chest no longer worked to gain life-saving breaths, and Johnny succumbed to the darkness.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Teresa couldn't view the room due to the curtains drawn over the glass-paned patio doors, but she could hear some scuffling noises. Alarmed, she pushed her shoulder against one of the doors. "Johnny!" It hadn't been bolted at the top, so it gave a little. Encouraged, she leaned her weight against the door, just above the handle, and it sprung open with the sound of splintering wood. Before she had the chance to enter the room, or even determine what was going on with Johnny, Harlan Garrett stepped forward. He put an arm out blocking her way, preventing her from seeing past his body.

"Let me by! Johnny needs me–"

Calmly, Garrett stood his ground. "He's fine, young woman, and doesn't need any attention from you."

Teresa glared at the white-haired man standing in her way. He was looking down on her with a look of contempt, as he had several times before, but this time there was more at stake than her own pride. She was sure that Johnny was in need of attention, yet for some unknown reason Scott's grandfather didn't want her to enter the bedroom.

Trying to push past the older man proved difficult. Garrett's arm pressed against her, herding her back as he tried to close the broken patio door behind him.

"Let me alone!" she cried, digging her fingers into the arm that denied her entrance.

"Calm down, little miss," he reprimanded. "You've broken this door in your haste! Remove your hand from my arm immediately."

He raised his walking stick to keep her back, but Teresa was not to be deterred. "Why won't you let me in there? And why were the doors locked? What were you doing in Johnny's room, anyway?" she demanded.

"Don't you talk to your elders and betters in that tone, Missy." Garrett glanced over his shoulder then lowered his voice. "The young man needed some assistance with a personal matter. My actions are really none of your concern, but I locked the doors, as he wished, to give him privacy. He is sleeping now, and you wouldn't want to be the cause of any further debility of his condition, would you?"

Teresa paused, but only for a moment. Her eyes narrowed. "I know Johnny and he would never ask you for anything so personal, Mr. Garrett. You might not be of any concern to me, but the man in that room certainly is. So please remove yourself from my path!"

The girl tried to shoulder past, but Garrett cast his arms around her, bodily removing her from the doorway. As he roughly cast her away, he saw her eyes widen. Following her gaze, he found he had a large smear of fresh blood on his coat, and more on his white shirt cuff and hand. Grabbing hold of her around the waist and lifting her bodily, Garrett removed Teresa from the doorway, but he didn't get his hand over her mouth in time.

Teresa let out a blood-curdling scream.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"What the hell are you doing, Garrett?" Murdoch's voice boomed across the yard as he rushed to aid the still-struggling girl, with Jelly following right on his heels.

Garrett dropped Teresa so suddenly she stumbled and would have fallen if Jelly hadn't moved to grab her arms. Steadying the shaken young woman, Jelly exclaimed, "That polecat been mishandling you, Teresa? Cuz if he has I'd be right pleased to whup him outta his fancy britches and-"

"I'm fine, Jelly," she gasped. "Murdoch, we have to check on Johnny! I'm so afraid-" Teresa started to explain the urgency that had compelled her to break down the door to Johnny's sickroom, but Murdoch had already taken in the situation and was ordering Harlan Garrett to get out of his way.

Striding past Garrett when he didn't give way, Murdoch threw the patio doors wide open, along with their curtains, to allow more light into the dim room. Johnny was lying as still as death, his bandaged right arm dangling over the side of the bed. His tousled hair was inky black against his pale forehead. His face, discolored with bruises from the beating the night before, was slack with unconsciousness.

Murdoch stopped beside the bed, one hand hesitantly touching Johnny's cheek. He then felt his son's neck for his pulse and was relieved to find faint signs of life.

Teresa rushed in to the bedside, glaring at Garrett as she passed him. She stroked Johnny's hair away from his face and reached for a cloth to dab at his forehead. "He's so quiet. Is he going to be all right?" she asked Murdoch as she peered up at him anxiously.

"He seems steady, but he's not all right, not by a long sight. He's barely breathing," Murdoch replied, his anger barely suppressed. Two of the hands had appeared in the doorway, asking what they could do. "Pedro, go find the doctor." The other man, Frank, stepped just inside, poised to follow any orders Murdoch should give.

Teresa said in hushed voice, as she indicated Garrett's stained clothing, "There's blood on him. . ."

Murdoch took in smears of blood on the blanket and quickly peeled the coverings down to expose Johnny's bare torso with its heavily bandaged middle. The sheet under Johnny was soaked with a frightening amount of fresh blood. Murdoch grabbed a towel and Jelly hurried to assist him unbidden. They rolled the unconscious man over, made quick work of cutting through the linen binding, and pressed the towel to the wound. Teresa was kept busy supplying fresh, wet cloths, until the water in the basin had turned as crimson as Johnny's bedding.

"Some of the stitches have given way," Murdoch said tersely. They applied a thick, folded towel to the wound and tied it roughly in place with Jelly's assistance.

When Murdoch was satisfied that there was nothing more they could immediately do, he looked up at Harlan Garrett, who was standing at the foot of the bed, staring at the scene. Murdoch said in a dangerously low voice, "Explain yourself, Mr. Garrett."

Frank stepped up and situated himself immediately behind Garrett, on guard.

Puffing out his chest, Garrett replied as if affronted. "I do not care to explain myself if you speak to me in that tone, Mr. Lancer." He moved to the hall door, but realized it was still locked. His hand reached out for the key that sat on the side table, but Murdoch commanded, "Stop right there!"

Taking a breath, Garrett turned back with some trepidation, the key clutched in his fist.

"I wasn't giving you a choice, Garrett," threatened Murdoch. "Explain what's been going on in here."

"The doors were all locked," accused Teresa, "when I returned from the kitchen." She pointed to the key clutched in Garrett's hand. "You locked me out while you were in here alone with Johnny!"

Placing a hand on Teresa's shoulder to keep her quiet, Murdoch stepped forward. His bulk was imposing in the small room.

Garrett glanced past Frank at the patio doors, calculating his chance of sidling out that way, but Jelly, with arms folded across his chest, now blocked the way as well. Clearing his throat, Garrett explained evenly, "As I told the young lady, before she had a fit of the vapors, I came in to assist the invalid. He appeared to suffer some kind of setback while I was attending him, and I was about to send for the doctor." He peered at Teresa from under his brows, pursed his lips and said sourly, "Perhaps if the girl had been paying closer attention to her patient-"

"I've never had a fit of the vapors in my life!" Teresa rebutted. "Johnny was fine when I left him and I was only away for a few minutes. I would never neglect him!"

"Teresa," Murdoch warned. Maria entered from the patio, deftly pulling her skirts back so they wouldn't touch Harlan Garrett in passing. She went directly to check on Johnny, speaking to Murdoch in Spanish. "Él no tiene una fiebre. Él gritó en alta voz."

"No," he responded. "He doesn't have a fever, gracias al Dios. You say you heard Johnny cry out?"

Maria nodded, looking concerned. "Si, I was in the kitchen, returning from my siesta, Señor Lancer. It was a sound very terrible."

"Garrett. You're saying that Johnny was alert when you entered, at his invitation, and then he–?"

"Yes, he became faint, yes, that's what occurred. I never heard any such cry, if that's what the servant says. She must have been dreaming. Now, perhaps we should all leave the young man to sleep it off. I'm not feeling well myself and need to rest." Garrett mopped his brow then unlocked the door to the hall and exited the room, his cane in hand.

Frank asked, "Mr. Lancer? You want me to. . .?"

Murdoch stared after Garrett. He'd seen a mark near Garrett's eye that looked like a gouge from a fingernail. "Don't let him out of your sight, Frank."

For a minute the only sound was that of the two men's receding footsteps, accompanied by the tap of Garrett's cane. Then Jelly came forward and said, "I don't trust that shyster, Mr. Lancer, not one bit. I'd lay a wager he weren't telling the truth."

"Yes, I know. Thank you, Jelly." Despite a deep anger broiling beneath the surface, Murdoch calmly leaned over his son and gently pulled the blanket up to his bare shoulder. "We need to get Dr. Mendez back here immediately."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

When Scott spotted the doctor's buggy hitched at the front of the hacienda, fear hit him like a blow. He hurried through the house, past Maria and one of the kitchen girls carrying a load of red-stained sheets away to the laundry, and on to Johnny's sickroom.

Pushing the paneled door open slowly, the tableau that played out before his eyes was as descriptive as he needed. Dr. Mendez, pulling his stethoscope out of his ears, dejectedly shaking his head. The Old Man's shoulders stooping with the burden of devastating news, his hand going to his mouth, his eyes closing in grief. Teresa, sobbing in the comforting arms of Jelly, whose own face was wet with tears that fell unheeded, marking his shirt with large, damp patches.

Rushing into the room, Scott sank to his knees by the bedside. Johnny was unconscious, that much was clear, the only sign of life being his chest rising slightly with each breath. Grasping his brother's hand, Scott searched his face for a sign of hope. There had been none in the faces of those attending the bedside, but he wasn't going to accept their unspoken acceptance of Johnny's near demise. "What happened here?" Scott looked up at the doctor. "He was doing all right this morning when I left. . . wasn't he?"

He felt rather than saw Murdoch usher the others out of the room. Dr. Mendez closed the door behind them, then said to Scott, "Your brother suffered some. . .trauma this afternoon, I'm afraid." He glanced at Murdoch for permission to go on. "There are signs of asphyxia." When Scott looked blankly at him, the doctor continued, "He's had a deficient supply of oxygen–"

"I know what asphyxia is, Doctor," Scott replied harshly as he stood. Searching the faces of the two austere men, he asked, "How can this be? Did he turn over, onto his stomach, maybe? Was he left alone? Did something else happen?"

Murdoch put a hand on Scott's shoulder, stopping the flow of questions. "Scott, son, Johnny was suffocated. On purpose."

"There were a couple of small feathers in his mouth, but I don't believe any were inhaled into his lungs." Mendez added, "No doubt from his pillow."

"Who? But who. . .?" Scott took a step back, meeting the eyes of his father. Murdoch's lips were compressed with anger, as if he was physically holding back his words. Scott looked from the doctor to Johnny's insensible form, trying to make sense of what was being said, that someone had actually held a pillow over Johnny's face and deliberately tried to murder him. Viewing the somber expressions of the men by the bedside, he understood that they carried little or no hope for Johnny's recovery. He asked anyway, "Will he pull through? Will he regain his senses?"

"It is possible, of course," said Mendez, even as he shook his head negatively. "But it is not so very likely, I am very sorry to say."

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	10. Chapter 10

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 10 - THE TORMENT

Scott placed his hand, palm down, on the blanket covering Johnny's chest. "He's always been a fighter," he said under his breath, afraid to speak loudly in case he disturbed the delicate rhythm of Johnny's breaths. He looked sharply at the doctor. "What makes you so sure he won't regain consciousness?"

"Scott!" Murdoch remonstrated.

But the doctor waved aside Murdoch's concern over his son's brusque tone. "Johnny has lost more blood, you see, and he is very weak. Coupled with the lack of oxygen to his brain, well, even if he does awake, there is little hope that he will have all of his faculties." Dr. Mendez motioned towards Johnny's stomach and added, "And there may be some internal injuries due to the cruel assault he received, on top of his earlier wounds."

Scott absorbed the information without exhibiting any emotion, then pulled back Johnny's coverings. A large hot cloth, stinking of medication, was draped over his belly. Scott gently peeled it away. Johnny's flesh bore a waxy pallor, but in contrast, the skin from his breastbone down to his abdomen was dark red and swollen - the early stages of trauma would develop into a massive bruise. /Should he live long enough,/ thought Scott. There were also marks running straight across his belly and over the inside of both elbows, indicating that something had been pressed down with considerable force.

With an unsteady hand, Scott covered his brother's torso with the blanket again, and asked, with intense calm, "Who could do such a barbaric thing?"

~ • ~ ~ • ~

When Scott returned to Johnny's room, the doctor had already left. Murdoch sat in an armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he watched over Johnny's unconscious body.

Quietly, Scott closed the door behind him and stood at attention. "You were right. He denied everything." When Murdoch only nodded, he added evenly, "I heard Teresa's side of it, of course, to be fair." He turned away, fists clenched, and raising one hand he slammed it against the doorframe as his anger threatened to spill over.

In a second, Murdoch was standing at his side. "Son, I didn't want you to–"

"To choose sides?"

"I'd never say that. Come and sit down, tell me what he said." He indicated for Scott to take one of the chairs flanking the foot of the bed.

Scott just looked at the armchair for moment, then slowly sank onto it, opposite his father. "But that's what it has come down to, hasn't it? Do I accept what my grandfather has sworn? That Johnny just went into some kind of downward spiral, the natural result of a wound that, by the way, was not inflicted by either of the two men I killed today. Did I tell you that I killed a man today, Father? Or maybe it was two. Isidro and I both shot one man off his horse at the same time, so it's hard to be certain." Scott laughed humorlessly. "The other one, Macon. . . I had my hands on him . . ."

"Isidro told me what happened." Murdoch looked at his son with concern. "Scott–"

"No, no, I'm all right. We did what was necessary. I'm angry with myself for missing the opportunity to get to the bottom of this whole thing. Now I have no doubt that the two men were hired only to get close to Johnny and take him unawares. They weren't the ones to knife him, but what they did, taking the lamb to the slaughter, was unconscionable." He viewed the motionless figure of his brother stretched out like a body on display the night before a burial. "It's a pity the man I was questioning died before he could say anything of value."

"This man gave no indication who hired them? Isidro said the knives he found on them were too small to have been the weapon used against Johnny."

"Macon and Flanagan had small blade clip-point knives, not a serrated-edged weapon like the one that was used on Johnny." He sighed deeply and settled back into his chair. "As far as the vague description that Macon gave me, it could be said to resemble half the men in this county." Scott kept his voice low even though Johnny still showed no sign of consciousness. "The man who hired them wore an old, stained duster, but Macon figured the man was rich. Of course, anyone with a five-dollar gold piece would have looked wealthy to those men. I plan on going to Morro Coyo to question anyone who may have been a witness last night."

"The sheriff has done that," Murdoch pointed out. "He sent a message saying he'd tracked down the trail boss to the stockyard in Porter Junction, and was going out there first thing in the morning to talk to the man. He'll let us know anything he discovers about this Macon and Flanagan. You don't have to go," he insisted. "I'd like you to stay close."

"Yes, but I want to question them myself. I need to." Scott glanced at a clock on the bureau. "It's too late to go now, and I don't want to leave while Johnny is like this. . ." Scott suddenly lost all of his energy and slumped with his head buried in his hands. As he tried to gather his strength, knowing he had to, for Johnny's sake, a hand was laid on his back. It was his father, yet he hadn't even heard the big man walk around the foot of the bed. "I must be more tired than I thought," Scott admitted. "It's just that. . . it's all so senseless. Those two men rode to Gunderson's and terrorized those innocent folks. They just walked in and shot Gunderson. It was obvious the family didn't have two pennies to rub together and had only a couple of workhorses in the corral." He paused, then said hoarsely, "They assaulted his wife. Did Isidro tell you that? Even though she said she wasn't harmed, I could see how badly it had affected her. If you'd seen the faces of their children–"

"Some men, if we can elevate them to that height by calling them men," Murdoch said, "perform cruel acts for no reason other than they can. It's up to us to balance such mindlessness with acts of reason." He stood and stretched, and when Scott didn't reply, he added, "I'm going to get us a pot of coffee. You'll be wanting some supper."

Scott waved the thought of food away, but Murdoch plowed on. "And don't refuse. Teresa wants to be woken at midnight and Maria will sit with her. We'll take shifts." When Murdoch got a slight nod of agreement from his son, he made for the door. He turned back to say, "It's your birthday tomorrow, isn't it? I'll bet Johnny will be awake and wishing you many happy returns, son. I'll lay a bet on that."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Cipriano found Murdoch in the corral, checking on Barranca by the light of an oil lamp he raised up high. "Señor?"

"Just checking Barranca's condition. I was heading for the kitchen but thought I'd look him over first." The palomino did not appear to have suffered from being stolen, although there were spurs welts marking his golden flanks.

"Scott asked me where you'd gone," Cipriano said casually.

Murdoch turned quickly, alarmed. "Is Johnny-?"

Hands raised to reassure his boss, Cipriano explained, "He's the same, no change. Miss Teresa is with him now." He stood at Murdoch's side and watched Barranca shake his head as he snorted. "He looks good, but the cabron used a whip on him as well as spurs," he pointed out. "Isidro tells me Barranca threw his rider off, and broke the lowlife's back." He nodded with approval. "Señor Scott, he finished what the horse started. Lo que se siembra se cosecha."

Murdoch hadn't asked his son outright if he had killed Macon. Unsure if he should be as glad as he was that the men were both dead, and concerned that Scott had taken revenge and might regret his actions later, he said nothing in reply.

"Let Barranca loose in the pasture," Murdoch said. Cipriano tied a lead to the stallion's halter but as he escorted him out of the gate, Murdoch detained him. He surveyed the horses milling around the corral in the dark and asked, "José, have you noticed if any of the horses have been ridden hard? Maybe one of the gentler animals?"

The big wrangler looked thoughtful. "There is the small mare, Palomita, out in the pasture, she was not rubbed down, Señor. Someone rode her late yesterday, perhaps. None of the men use her for work, and I wasn't going to say anything, but I thought maybe the Señorita. . ." Cipriano left the sentence unfinished when Murdoch shook his head.

"No, Teresa wouldn't put an animal out there without taking care of it first. She didn't ride anywhere last night." Looking in the direction of the pasture, Murdoch asked, "Has anyone else ridden that mare recently?"

"Yes. I told Juan to saddle her for Señor Garrett, when he rode to town with Señor Scott maybe two days ago. She is gentle, good for a rider with little skill. Did I do wrong?"

The small mare would have been easy for Harlan Garrett to saddle, and he had ridden her before. He could have ridden to Morro Coyo last night, met the men he hired, attacked Johnny and returned. It might not have been easy returning on the dark road in the small hours, but it was possible. They hadn't seen Garrett since he had retired after dinner and he could have gone to town and back well before dawn. It was possible. Garrett would have to have been highly motivated to plan such a campaign and Murdoch didn't know if he was capable of carrying it out.

Murdoch realized the wrangler was patiently waiting and replied, "No, no, you did nothing wrong. Thank you, Cipriano. You turn in now."

"Si, Señor." He hesitated and when Murdoch looked at him with eyebrows raised in inquiry, Cipriano added, "Isidro, he told me he and Señor Scott shot at the men who were escaping."

"Yes, he told me."

"He just told me that Señor Rinaldo returned from taking the bodies to the undertaker's, and said there was only one hit on the first man we took down." Cipriano shifted uneasily. "The bullet, Señor, was a fifty-caliber. It did not come from my rifle."

"I see. Thank you. Did you tell Scott? No, then leave it to me."

"Good night, Patron."

When Cipriano had gone, Murdoch leaned against the corral gate for a few minutes. He absently stroked the soft noses of a couple of horses as he went over everything that had occurred, fact by fact. He tried to put his own animosity for Harlan Garrett aside long enough to be as impartial as possible, but even so, in the end he had no doubt that Harlan was behind the attacks on Johnny. The man was as guilty for the acts of his hired killers as if he'd committed them himself. The question now was what to do about it.

Bile rose in Murdoch's throat at the image of Garrett getting his henchmen to hold Johnny down while he twisted the blade in his back. Murdoch had to take a deep breath to calm himself, and as much as he wanted to rush upstairs to throttle the old bastard, he refrained. Instead, he trod purposefully back to the house to have a serious talk with Scott.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"Are you going to accuse my grandfather of attempted murder?" Scott demanded as he sat across from Murdoch at the kitchen table, cups of coffee sitting in front of them. By an unspoken agreement, they had moved into the kitchen sometime around midnight, as soon as Teresa had come down to sit with Johnny. They had not wanted to conduct what would be sure to turn into a heated conversation over Johnny's unconscious body.

When Scott had returned from hunting down Johnny's attackers, Murdoch had told him what had occurred to Johnny in his absence. Scott had been horrified - at both the monstrous harm done to his vulnerable brother - as well as at the implication that Harlan Garrett had committed the assault.

A terse interview with his grandfather had gained nothing but denials of any involvement in the crime. He had seemed sincere. Scott still balked at admitting that his grandfather was capable of hurting anyone on purpose. But after this latest attack, deep down he was afraid it was all too possible.

Murdoch said insistently, "There is no denying that Garrett was in that room, Scott, and his explanation is claptrap."

"You can't find him guilty on such thin evidence, Sir."

"I am telling you my suspicions, and I haven't allowed my dislike of Harlan to cloud my judgment. If you had seen him, the way he acted when I asked what he'd been doing in there, alone with Johnny. . . you would be looking at him with suspicion, too." Murdoch added, "He has a mark on his face, did you see it? Near his eye. Like someone had struck him."

"This is my grandfather you're talking about! How can you expect me to even consider he would commit such a heinous act? You're talking about premeditated murder. Murder! It's unthinkable. I just can't, can't see it. There has to be some other explanation." With elbows on the table, Scott's head sank into his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked disconsolately into his cup of black coffee.

"I will not," Murdoch said firmly, "have Garrett in the same house as your brother."

Scott's head came up at that. "Where do you expect him to stay, then? Perhaps in the old Spanish guardhouse? Or would you prefer it if my grandfather was under lock and key in the Green River jail with the drunks and cattle rustlers?" He asked heatedly, "Maybe we should bypass the law altogether and string him up from the nearest tree?"

Murdoch didn't give an inch. "If it comes to it, yes, I believe he should be prosecuted for his assault on Johnny-"

His hands hitting the table, Scott shouted, "You're jumping to the conclusion that Grandfather hired those men, and that he stabbed Johnny himself. There is no proof! You sound like you've already found him guilty!"

"You didn't let me finish," Murdoch replied sternly.

Scott raised his hands. "Fine. Go ahead."

Murdoch nodded and continued, "I was going to say: He should be prosecuted if it proves that he is the culprit. You can go into town and search for any witnesses, as planned. Gabe may have discovered something new by the time you meet him. If anyone saw anything, the sheriff will wheedle information out of them."

"Macon could have been lying about this stranger hiring them," Scott pointed out. "He could have been trying to shift the blame away from himself. He said they were paid but we found less than fifty dollars between the two men."

"Then what about Johnny being smothered right here in his own bed? With Garrett standing over him!" Murdoch banged a fist on the kitchen table, causing the coffee cups to jump.

"Even if my grandfather resents Johnny, he wouldn't have hurt him when he was lying there defenseless. Harlan Garrett is not without morals, Murdoch."

Murdoch laid a hand on Scott's forearm. "We will be fair, Son, but we must be realistic. We know there is animosity between Garrett and your brother. If he caused harm to Johnny, we must know the truth. But right now I don't want Garrett in my house. We need to find secure accommodations for him."

Even as Scott protested his grandfather's innocence, he knew that Harlan Garrett could do such a thing - and worse. Accepting it caused a dreadful pain in his heart. It was his own fault, thought Scott, for allowing Garrett to set foot on Lancer again. How could he have been so naive as to believe that history wouldn't repeat itself? And the end result: attempted murder, Johnny's near-mortal wounds, innocent neighbors harmed, his own trust and family ties torn apart as if they were of no consequence. Did his grandfather think so little of him that he thought he'd just turn a blind eye?

Scott couldn't look up to meet his father's gaze for the shame he felt. He drank some coffee and finally said, "All right. Depending on Johnny's condition, in the morning I'll ride into Morro Coyo and work with Sheriff Stillwater. Before I go, I'll install my grandfather in some other quarters." He managed to raise his head and give a slight smile. "He's going to kick up one hell of a fuss."

Murdoch grunted. "How about putting him in the new bunkhouse?" The building, when finished, would accommodate six men, along with a private bedroom intended for the head wrangler. It was on the far side of the barn, not too close to the house. The finishing touches had not been added yet, but it was a temporary solution to their problem.

"Good idea. It will hold him for a day or two." Scott had given serious thought to instructing the sheriff to lock his grandfather in a secure cell, but something had prevented him from taking that step. Any feelings of familial loyalty and deference for Harlan Garrett had all but disappeared when he'd agreed that the old man could come on this visit, and now they were about to be permanently severed. "If, by some chance, when Johnny regains his senses, if he names someone other than my grandfather, we should make arrangements to have him on the first train out of Meyer's Junction."

Murdoch nodded. "We'll need to keep a guard on Garrett. He might even need protection from the hands. They are very troubled about what happened to Johnny and might do something rash."

Scott took a deep breath. "We can't put Johnny's life at risk. I'm sorry for bringing Grandfather here. If I'd had any idea––."

"There's only one man to blame, son, and it isn't you. I don't want to hear talk like that from you," Murdoch said sternly. "Frank is outside Garrett's bedroom door right now, so we will allow him to stay there for the remainder of the night. Now I need to go check on Johnny one more time before I try to get some sleep."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

From a distance, the clock in the great room chimed four times. Scott slumped in an easy chair, watching the immobile figure in the bed. In the several hours he'd been sitting there, trying without success to concentrate on his book, Johnny hadn't even moved.

Teresa had applied hot compresses to the wounded man's battered body, then they had re-bandaged him and turned him onto his side, but there was little else they could do. Murdoch was in bed, though he had gone reluctantly and only when Scott had gone up to his own bedroom at the same time. Three hours of sleep had taken enough of an edge off Scott's deep weariness to enable him able to return to Johnny's room. He probably should have slept longer, but he couldn't bear to be away from his brother's bedside. Teresa had worked on her knitting for a while, but was now fast asleep, curled up in an armchair.

Scott thought about how Johnny's troubles made him aware of the fragility of life. Even during the great war he hadn't felt this aware of the fickleness of death. Maybe that was because death was expected during warfare. But for a vital young man such as his brother to go out for a drink and a game of poker and to come back broken and near death was difficult to accept.

His immediate reaction had been to pursue the suspects, to hunt them down with a greed for revenge. He had reveled in the chase and that disturbed him almost as much as the lack of feeling he'd had over the deaths of the two men who had assaulted his brother. It would probably hit him later, at some inopportune moment, he thought glumly.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	11. Chapter 11

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 11 - WHISPERS

Teresa awoke before the light of dawn and helped Scott replace the bloodstained bandage around Johnny's middle. She moved sluggishly, hampered by her drowsiness. Even though she tried valiantly to stay awake, she couldn't keep her eyes open and finally admitted she had to go to bed, even if only for a few hours. "I'll be back to feed him breakfast, if he's awake," she said hopefully.

Scott sat in one of the comfortable chairs and read, though without much enthusiasm. Over the following couple of hours he looked up at Johnny too many times to count. Eventually he rose to stretch and checked Johnny's bandages to see if there was any more blood seeping through them. The stitches that held together the ragged flesh in the small of Johnny's back were encrusted with dried blood, and he was relieved to see that Dr. Mendez's repairs appeared to be holding.

Scott rinsed his face with clean water to rouse himself, then bathed Johnny's forehead with a damp cloth. His brother's breaths were deeper and seemed steady, which was a relief. Earlier, Scott had timed every inhalation by the gentle ticks of the clock, ever fearful that the next one would simply not come.

It was difficult to say in the early morning light, but Johnny's color seemed to have improved slightly. Although his eye sockets were dusky and the eyelid that had taken a blow was turning black, his lips had lost their bluish tint. His neck was dark with bruising, right up to the jaw line, and the pillowcase was stained with blood from the injury at the back of his skull.

Scott dabbed witch hazel and ointments on the affected areas, wondering if his efforts were doing any good. He finished up by gently placing Johnny's bandaged right arm on top of an extra pillow. After opening the curtains to let in the first rays of morning, he returned to his chair and angled his book towards the window to pick up some light on the pages.

He must have dozed off because he was startled awake by the loud thump of his book hitting the floor. There were sounds emanating from the kitchen; the muffled clang of pots, the grinding of the pump's handle as water was drawn into the sink. He could smell bacon and was reminded he hadn't eaten a decent meal since breakfast on the previous day. Scott drew out his pocket watch and focused his tired eyes on the small dial. It was near on five. He yawned and stretched out his arms, then suddenly realized he was looking straight into Johnny's open eyes.

Calling out to Maria to fetch Murdoch, Scott excitedly leaned over his brother. "Johnny! Johnny, can you hear me?"

Johnny blinked slowly a few times. Disoriented, his eyes wandered past Scott to look vaguely around the room. Raising his bandaged hand to grope at Scott's shirt, he moaned. With features screwed up in pain, Johnny's arms clutched around his belly as he let out a loud cry. Taking in deep breaths, he arched his back and moved his head from side to side on the pillow in distress.

Scott firmly placed both hands on Johnny's shoulders as he tried to calm him, but Johnny fought him off. "Take it easy, brother. Calm down, just calm down. I know it hurts, I know, I know. . . Oh, Jeez. . . "

The words of comfort fell on deaf ears; Johnny writhed, moaning through clenched teeth. The more he struggled against the hands that pinned him down, the more pain he experienced. His cries grew louder, becoming open-mouthed shouts of anguish, and when Scott adjusted his grip to avoid a flailing arm, Johnny let out a scream.

Desperately, Scott called out, "Murdoch!"

Murdoch, dressed only in his nightshirt, burst into the bedroom. "Where's the laudanum Dr. Mendez left?"

"Let me get it, you hold Johnny," Scott ordered. He traded places with his father in order to pour a dose of the medicine into a glass of water. "How are we going to get this in him?" he asked, "He'll never take it!"

"Just bring it here. We'll get in into him somehow." Murdoch held Johnny in a firm grip, handling him with the same tough authority he used on unruly animals. But this was his wounded son, and the wordless cries of pain and their own anxiety made the job at hand all the more torturous.

Between them, they raised the patient in order to give him the medicine. Johnny pushed away the hands that were trying to help him and turned his head away, but they were able to administer a quantity of the laudanum despite his resistance.

Scott lowered Johnny back to the bed and held his shoulders steadfastly, waiting for the medicine to take effect. To him, the most disturbing thing of all was not the struggling, nor the intense pain Johnny was suffering, but the vacant look in his blue eyes. Even as the drug took effect and the moaning receded, Johnny just stared blankly at something beyond their field of vision, something very disturbing.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"I will never forgive you for this, Scottie," said Harlan Garrett venomously. "I know that Murdoch Lancer put you up to this. He always had it in for me. Why, look how he took my daughter away from me, just for spite-"

"Stop it, Grandfather," Scott cut in, as he indicated the older man should proceed into the bunkhouse. "There is a bedroom with a fireplace in here, and there are plenty of books to read. If you need anything you will ask the man at the door-"

"I need my grandson to come to his senses," Garrett said as he disdainfully looked around the plain room. It had only the barest of furnishings, but they had come from the main house and were all of good quality: a bed, dresser, easy chair, tables and a commode. Wood was stacked near the fireplace and a tray of food and drink, including brandy, sat on the small dining table nearby.

Ignoring his surroundings, Garrett continued, "This is intolerable! You will regret this, all of you. Murdoch Lancer has poisoned you against me, made you act in this way, caused you to hate me," Garrett sputtered. "It's because of your inheritance, and you can't convince me otherwise. Today, as of today my boy, you are very wealthy and Lancer can see what's in it for him!"

"I need you to consider what has brought us to this point," Scott said tersely, ignoring the reference to his birthday. "And I want you to remember what my brother has suffered at the hands of an assailant and your name is at the top of the list of suspects. You will remain here until we get to the bottom of this. There will be someone on guard at all times. I am sorry for this, Grandfather, but I do not regret it."

Scott turned to leave, but Garrett caught his arm. "You cannot think I had anything to do with the harm those ruffians did to your half-brother. Think, Scottie, how I raised you like my own child, as a Garrett-"

Looking from the hand clutching at his sleeve to the pale gray eyes of Harlan Garrett, Scott replied coldly, "My name, sir, is Scott Lancer and I'll remind you that Johnny not only bears the same surname as me, but my brother is close to me in a way that you will never understand." He turned back to face Garrett when he reached the door. "If you had a hand in this, Grandfather, I will never forgive you, and if my brother dies, I will make sure you hang."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Dr. Mendez stood over his patient, considering what action to take. Murdoch and Scott watched the doctor's face for a sign that he was more optimistic than the last time he had been called to attend Johnny.

"We need to rouse him enough to confirm who did this to him," Murdoch said anxiously.

"I believe," said Mendez carefully, "that he should remain on medication until he is stronger. If he tears out those stitches again, they will be very difficult to repair, and he can't stand to lose any more blood. Next thing, infection will set in and he's far too weak to survive that."

Johnny's eyes were slightly open, but the laudanum that killed his pain also kept him in a stupor. When the doctor moved his fingers in front of Johnny's face, the eyelids flickered a little, but he was barely responsive.

"He was in terrible pain," Scott told the doctor, recalling the cries that his brother had emitted until the drug had taken effect. "We don't want him to suffer any more."

"It is likely," explained the doctor, "that any cries were from mental anguish, in part. He would have been very confused, coming out of a coma caused by asphyxiation."

Murdoch pointed out, "No matter, we don't want Johnny to be put through that again, even if it means we can't speak to him. It can wait."

Scott asked, "Doctor, is it possible that Johnny rolled onto his stomach, maybe face down into his pillow, and passed out? He could have been too weak to right himself."

"Yes," the doctor mused. "It's a possibility. But it doesn't account for the new bruising, especially the straight mark across his stomach, the one that appears to be from some kind of rod or stick."

"I think we all know that these wounds weren't self-inflicted." Murdoch tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He refrained from saying aloud that Harlan had been present in Johnny's bedroom while Johnny was being physically harmed yet had apparently seen nothing, and had done nothing to aid the injured man.

Scott met his father's angry gaze. "Do we wait to hear exactly what happened from Johnny himself before calling in the sheriff?" He was prepared to go over to the bunkhouse and strangle his own grandfather, he was so enraged.

Murdoch saw his son's anger and warned, "Scott, don't. Not yet. Garrett is confined and someone will be with Johnny at all times. We will wait for Johnny to regain consciousness."

The doctor looked from one Lancer to the other and pointed out, "That may be two or more days, so be patient. Also, be prepared that Johnny might not recall the events of the past few days. The blow to his head as well as the asphyxia could affect his memory. The good news is that there doesn't appear to be any serious new injury, although he will be exceedingly sore for some time from all those bruises. The new sutures I added to his back wound should hold and he will eventually regain his strength. What he needs now is care and rest, plus plenty of liquids, and broth if he will take it." Dr. Mendez shook the hands of the Lancer men. "You know the drill."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

By midday Sheriff Stillwater arrived with the latest news.

Murdoch noted that he looked worn out, but past experience had proved that Gabe was as tough as old leather and a dogged lawman. He wouldn't rest until he'd done everything possible to capture the man who had knifed Johnny.

Conversing in low tones just outside the door to Johnny's sickroom, the sheriff told Murdoch and Scott what he had discovered in his investigation. "It ain't much, I'm afraid. The trail boss over in Porter said the two good-for-nothings were lucky they'd lived as long as they had. They were nothin' but trouble and he said they were as connivin' as coyotes, but he never knew either man to fight with a blade. Could be they got in over their heads."

"They robbed the Gundersons, or tried to," Scott pointed out. "They certainly would have done a lot worse if the posse hadn't turned up when it did. Those men had a mean streak in them, and I'll bet they had wanted papers on them somewhere."

Gabe added, "The trail boss said the two men hired on a short while back. He thought they came from Jackson Hole or thereabouts."

"Jackson Hole?" asked Scott.

"Wyoming," Gabe explained.

"Rinaldo and I checked their gear and neither man had a knife with a serrated edge. They could have discarded it, though."

Watching Scott, Murdoch saw the soldier come out in his boy, in his straight-backed stance as well as the way he spoke to authority figures with the confidence of a leader. He also recognized his son's stiff bearing as his way of keeping a rein on his anger. Although Scott was attentive to the sheriff as they talked, his hand clenched and unclenched at his side.

"Could be," agreed the sheriff. "I'll check the wanteds in my office as soon I get a chance. Now they're dead, you might be due a reward, Scott." He saw Scott's startled look and added, "The Gunderson's could do with some seed money, I'd bet."

"If someone hired them," Scott said, "he must have recognized the two men as criminal material."

Murdoch pointed out, "You can't just pick out anyone in a small town and expect them to agree to lure a man out into the street and beat him up." He wondered how Garrett had chosen the men for his dirty job. He had no doubt that it had, indeed, been Garrett. Once before, Scott's grandfather had been able to find out a couple of low-down thieves, the Deegan brothers, to carry out his devious plans. He wondered if Garrett had some innate sense of who was approachable.

Gabe continued, "I interviewed everyone I could round up in Morro Coyo about the goings-on on the night Johnny was waylaid. The gals at the dance hall remembered the men and one admitted one fellow paid her to push a drink on Johnny that was laced with something. Her description fits Macon. I won't tolerate such goings-on in my town and I sent her packin'. Also, the fellows playing poker never saw Macon and Flanagan talking to nobody that fits the description of the third fellow. I also asked Amos Whipple, because he was on the scene around the same time as me, but he only saw the two men taking off, one riding your boy's palomino."

As he scratched his two-day-old bristles, Gabe added sheepishly, "I gotta tell you, when I came upon your Johnny lying in the street, I chased after them two fellers who were riding away from the scene. They got away from me in the dark, and I know that could happen to any lawman, but I never had no indication that there was a third man. I just want you to know I feel real bad about missing that, Lancer."

Murdoch and Scott assured the sheriff that they didn't think he was negligent in doing his duty. Even Johnny had not been able to identify that third man. "Johnny has never mentioned anyone except the two men who accompanied him to his horse," said Murdoch. "He hasn't been able to tell us anything about this latest assault on him, but as soon as he does we'll let you know, Sheriff."

"As it stands now," the sheriff said, "your boy didn't see his attacker, and neither did anyone else. So unless we find the knife in the person's possession. . ."

Scott cut in gruffly, "I searched my grandfather's belongings already."

Murdoch looked at his son with barely-disguised surprise.

"I packed his belongings to move them into the bunkhouse." Scott explained shortly. "I searched his bedroom upstairs as well. Thoroughly. There was no knife."

Gabe looked from one Lancer man to the other as they stood silently regarding each other. "Hmm. That's a dead end. On the other hand, your son has survived two attempts on his life and when he comes to we'll bring Mr. Garrett before him. Just ask Johnny if he's the man who harmed him. Face to face. Might shake things up a little." He waited for Murdoch and then Scott to nod in agreement.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Johnny lay in a half-asleep state, aware of the injuries to his body yet somehow disconnected from them. He had heard the low voices outside his door, even if they washed over him and their meaning didn't really sink in at first. But now he was waking up enough to take in their implication.

His sense of time was distorted, but Johnny knew that Harlan Garrett had been in this room at some point and the knowledge made his heart beat faster, without him knowing exactly why. As he slowly regained his senses, the events of the past two days unfolded, eventually laying themselves out in an order he could comprehend. It was like a pack of cards: as individuals they meant little, but when shuffled and spread out in the right order, they had an altogether different implication.

He knew that he had been beaten and knifed and that his horse had been stolen. That angered him more than anything they'd done to him personally. The two men who had knocked him senseless had held his arms in a vicious grip, waiting for someone to approach. His right arm had been twisted behind his back until the bone almost snapped, and the force had driven him to his knees.

Johnny now had a clear image of Macon and Flanagan standing on either side of him when a knife was shoved into his lower back. That meant there had been another man, someone behind him, someone unseen. . . just a dark figure in a shadowed street. He winced at the memory of the shock as well as the agony of the cold steel as it was rammed into his body.

Garrett had said something to him, right in this room, but what had it been? He struggled to recall the words; Garrett had said that he took pleasure in causing him pain, that Scott would leave with him for Boston, leave Lancer. . . and then the old man had pushed down - hard - on his damaged body and had pressed a pillow over his face.

Suddenly, Johnny couldn't get any air in his lungs, they were bursting, painful chest, getting weaker. . . That memory made Johnny wake up in a hurry. /My God, the old bastard tried to suffocate me!/

Garrett must have planned the attack in Morro Coyo. He had hired those two men to befriend him, to carouse and drink with him then take him unawares, to get hold of his gun and render him harmless. Well, the plan had worked; it was a sobering thought.

But Johnny had fought back enough to survive until the sheriff had interrupted the attack. The thing was, he thought, he'd had a genuinely good time - until he'd been sacked by those sidewinders.

When Johnny had initially regained consciousness, and had told his family what had transpired in Morro Coyo, he hadn't known that Garrett had orchestrated the whole thing. But he knew about it now. Johnny took a deep breath, felt a vicious stab in his back and shifted to ease the pain that was returning all too quickly. His stomach felt like someone had used it as a punching bag, his neck was swollen enough to make swallowing difficult, and his head was splitting. He groaned, more for his gullibility than because of the pain.

Scott had apparently returned from hunting down the fugitives, leaving one man at large, and Garrett had access to his room, neither thought being conducive to sleep.

The voices outside his door receded and Teresa came in. She must have thought he was still out cold because she tiptoed to his bedside. Before he knew what she was up to, she slipped another spoonful of an ill-tasting liquid into his mouth, then soothed him when he made a grunt of objection. He tried to ask for his gun, but darkness overtook him before he was able to mouth the plea.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

The light was different in the bedroom when he woke again. His lids were too heavy to keep open, so he drifted into a twilight state, but he could hear Teresa talking softly to someone at the far side of the room.

"Scott is taking responsibility for his grandfather's actions," she said in a hushed voice. "He's talking about sending Mr. Garrett back to Boston and I'm afraid Scott might go with him. He's very upset about the whole thing. It's just not right. I knew that old man was going to bring trouble to this house even before he got here. He's as good as being a murderer. I just knew there was something awful about him. . ."

Jelly replied, his voice barely raised above a whisper, "Murdoch won't do nothin' until some evidence shows up, or if'n Johnny eyeballs the old geezer as his attacker. They say Garrett's gonna stay here until it's settled - one way or t'other. I tell you, a necktie party would settle it right quick."

"Shh! Don't say that, Jelly, don't even think that." There was silence except for the clicking of her knitting needles. After a while, Teresa sighed. "I don't think Scott even remembers it's his birthday, he's so worried about Johnny," she said. There was the rustling of her skirts as she put her handiwork away in her workbasket. "I'm going to remind Maria to bake a cake for Scott. We can surprise him," she whispered.

A chair creaked as Jelly stood. "I gotta get back to my work, can't watch over Johnny. The whole day'll be gone and someone'll be sure to blame me, sure enough, if things don't get done. Gotta tear out the old wood from the stall in the barn. Johnny'll be all right on his own?"

"Just leave the door ajar, Jelly, so I can listen from the kitchen. Scott will be here any minute to sit with him, anyway."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Scott entered Johnny's room carrying an armful of medical supplies and some reading material. He stopped in his tracks only a couple of feet in, staring at the bed. Johnny was not in it. "Hell!" He was about to turn around and raise the alarm, but he spotted Johnny standing near the open window, half obscured by the curtains. Except for the bandages that covered him from chest to navel he was buck-naked.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	12. Chapter 12

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 12 - RAMBLING

Scott rushed over to Johnny and immediately put an arm of support around his unsteady brother. "What do you think you're doing?"

Johnny didn't turn his head or even acknowledge Scott's presence, but just stared off into the distance, in the vicinity of the barn.

"How did you manage to. . .?" Scott asked disbelievingly. "You have to come back to your bed, Johnny." He was seriously concerned that the trauma that his brother had gone through had affected his mental functions. It was amazing that Johnny was standing and that he'd maneuvered himself out of his bed and all the way over to the window.

Johnny raised his bandaged hand slightly, causing Scott to look in the direction in which he was pointing. Beyond the stucco wall bordering the patio the barn was visible, and past that was the pasture with several horses, including Barranca, grazing peacefully. When he realized that Johnny had discovered his palomino, a laugh escaped Scott's lips, one of relief. "Yes, Barranca's safe, Johnny. We got him back. Now come on over to your bed. If Teresa catches you wandering around like this, there'll be hell to pay."

As Scott started to turn from the window, out of the corner of his eye he saw a rider just coming through the big Lancer gate. With Johnny's weight heavy on his arm, he hesitated only long enough to see who was coming. Even from a distance, he recognized the visitor as Mr. Rinaldo, leading Scott's own horse. He saw Murdoch cross the yard and stop, waiting to greet the approaching company. After a few words with the man, Murdoch then directed him to the barn.

Glad that his horse had been returned, Scott smiled and turned back to the task of guiding Johnny the few steps back to his bed.

Part way there, the wounded man's eyes closed involuntarily and for a moment his knees became so weak he was in danger of collapsing. The arm of support around his waist tightened and inadvertently pressed against the wound in his back. Even though it was well padded with heavy bandages, the acute pain cut through his dulled senses and woke him right up. Gritting his teeth, Johnny held back any sound, but Scott looked sharply at him and deftly adjusted his grip.

With a lot of help, Johnny made it safely into his bed. He sank appreciatively onto the soft mattress with a grunt, closing his eyes as Scott pulled the covers up over him. When he opened them again a couple of minutes later, Scott was sitting on the edge of the bed with a glass of water in his hand and a look of recrimination on his face.

"Hmm?" Johnny mumbled. His head was swimming and all he wanted to do was sleep.

"You know Johnny, you're the only man I know who can be lying on his deathbed at breakfast yet be up, strolling around, by noon."

The corners of Johnny's lips lifted in the semblance of a smile, but the look in Scott's eyes was far from humorous. Johnny tried to respond, but to his dismay he couldn't get any words to come out. His brain wasn't exactly clear, and he took a moment to corral his disordered thoughts. He tried again, but his lips moved soundlessly. A moment of near-panic ensued.

Scott, aware of his brother's inner struggle, laid a hand on Johnny's chest. "It's all right. Just take it easy, nice and slow."

Johnny took a few breaths and composed himself, then pointed to his own chest. "Okay," he whispered with difficulty.

"You're okay?" Scott asked. "That's good. There's no hurry, it'll come back, Johnny." He looked over his shoulder and considered the distance his brother had covered in order to seek a glimpse of his horse. "How the heck did you get out of bed and all the way to the door?"

Johnny fumbled for the glass of water in his brother's hand. When he had drunk half a glassful, he made another attempt at speech. "Rolled," he croaked.

"You just rolled out of bed," Scott said skeptically.

Johnny nodded. "Heard Barranca." He reached out with his left hand and clasped Scott's hand in thanks. Inspecting the bandage on his right arm, Johnny clumsily started picking at a knot that secured the strips of white gauze.

"Hey, hey, you have to leave that on, Johnny," Scott warned. He reached to stop his brother, but Johnny retracted his arm and continued pulling at the knot.

"Stubborn," mumbled Johnny.

Scott sighed. "Both of you. Look, if you have to remove it, at least let me help you."

Johnny paused for a few seconds, the proffered the bandaged arm.

Scott eyed him as he undid the knot and carefully unwrapped the bandage. Johnny looked like he could barely keep his eyes open, but his pallor seemed less pronounced. Scott had been fearful that Johnny had incurred permanent damage from being smothered, but the few words he had managed to speak so far had indicated he still had his faculties. Trust his brother to alarm them and then to bounce back so quickly.

Even knowing he had to ask Johnny who had suffocated him, Scott hesitated. On one hand, he didn't want to have confirmation that Harlan Garrett had attempted murder, and on the other, he was afraid that Johnny might not know what had happened to him. Then there would be little choice but to release Garrett. Scott liked things to be neatly wrapped up, tied with a secure knot and put safely away, and he had a feeling that it was not likely to happen in this instance.

Once his arm was revealed, Johnny inspected it. There was severe bruising, his hand was badly swollen from his wrist to his fingers, and there were several long scrapes where he had been restrained. He flexed his fingers slowly, then frowned. "Hell," he muttered. "Stiff. Can't shoot." He shrugged ruefully. "I'll be a lefty."

Scott watched Johnny assess the damage to his own body and replied, "Maybe so. You're sure it isn't broken?"

With a curt shake of his head, Johnny said, "Just sorta bent." He took a deep breath to tell Scott how he'd once worn a two-gun rig, and although he'd been pretty good with a pistol in each hand, he'd chosen to be best with just the one gun. But as his ribs expanded with a lungful of air, his back muscles cramped, the sutures in his back strained, and his torn flesh screamed in protest. Searing pain coursed through his back as if a hot poker had been jammed into it. Johnny wrapped his arms around his middle and tried to hold the agony in check, but got little relief.

Knowing that Scott was scrutinizing him worriedly, Johnny stared at the ceiling and waited for the pain to recede. For a few minutes he could barely catch his breath. It got worse before it got better but eventually the pain passed, leaving an intense throbbing in its wake.

"Take some laudanum, Johnny." Scott had to offer it even if he was sure that Johnny would choose not to take any medication. Sometimes it was best not to ask, but simply to give him the dose. The terse shake of Johnny's dark head was not unexpected. Nevertheless, Scott carefully measured a dose into a glass of water. Ignoring the surprisingly strong hand that pushed the glass away, he ordered, "Drink this."

The look Scott received from the blue eyes was caustic enough to cause many a man to back off, but it didn't deter him at all. Contrary to being displeased, he took it as a sign that Johnny had a reservoir of strength he was drawing from, somewhere deep inside. Scott just pushed the medicine to Johnny's lips and didn't give an inch.

In the end, Johnny drank it all.

Scott put the empty glass aside and said, "Let me wrap up your arm again."

"No." Johnny cradled his wounded limb to his chest and sank into the bedding, exhausted. "Gonna sleep." He closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

Scott leaned over his brother and started to question him before the laudanum took over. "Johnny, can you hear me? It's important. I need to know. . . we need to know, Johnny. . . when my grandfather came in here yesterday, what happened?"

Johnny reluctantly opened his eyes again. The bruised lid was puffy and was colored a purple shade, but he was able to open it enough to see through. "Wha' day is't?" he asked in a voice slurred with sleep.

Scott pursued his line of questioning. "I'm talking about yesterday. Did you ask him to come in to help you with something? Maybe you were in pain? Or had to use the chamber pot?" Johnny looked straight at him in silence, but Scott was pretty sure that his brother comprehended his meaning. Scott took a deep breath and said slowly, "Johnny, I believe that my grandfather came in here and threatened you, and even hurt you. It's very difficult for me to believe that he is capable of such a thing, but it appears that is exactly what he did." He spoke deliberately, every word measured. "You see, it will only take one word from you and we'll take him to Green River and press charges. He will be banished from here forever."

Johnny evaluated what was being said as well as the consequences of his reply. He knew what Scott was asking, and grasped the situation better than his brother was aware. He turned his gaze to his forearm, looking at the bruises and cuts that marred it. It was very painful, as was his back and his stomach, but all of these injuries would fade and heal with time. "He's. . . your kin," Johnny said quietly.

Scott was taken aback for a moment. "Well so are you, Johnny, but I won't be choosing between the two of you. I don't need to. You will always come first. Always. No matter who hurt you, we intend to let the law take care of it. Do you understand?"

The steadfast look in Johnny's eyes wavered, then the lids came down and the head turned away.

"Johnny!" With a hand on his brother's shoulder, Scott tried to get his attention. Afraid that the laudanum had taken effect before he could get an answer, he was relieved a minute later when Johnny's eyes slowly reopened.

Johnny shifted his shoulders and blinked a few times, then rubbed his eyes. It was just as if he was awakening on a normal morning, without a concern in the world. Seemingly puzzled to find Scott hovering over him, he asked in a reed-thin whisper, "What happened t'your face?"

Scott's fingers went to touch his own cheek and he remembered he'd been cut while riding after Macon and Flanagan. "This? Nothing. A sliver of rock hit me, that's all."

Johnny's brows raised in query.

"Isidro and I ran down the men who attacked you in Morro Coyo, after we left the posse. One of them took a potshot at me. Didn't even come close," Scott explained impatiently. "Johnny, tell me what my grandfather did to you," he insisted.

Johnny studied his brother's troubled features. For some reason, what Garrett had done just didn't seem to matter at this moment. Not to him, anyway. He was trying to sort out what had happened on the hunt for the fugitives. But then it hit him, and he understood how far Scott had gone. "You killed 'em," Johnny stated with a nod of approval.

"What?"

"Macon and -."

"Oh. Yes. Johnny, did my grandfather-?"

"Both of 'em?"

Scott looked at his hands and took a moment to reply. "Yes. I didn't have it in mind to kill them. Not the second one, anyway." He met Johnny's eyes and saw no sign of judgment in them. "I was. . . rough with the man, Macon. It was almost as if it wasn't really me standing over him. It wasn't just anger I was feeling. Maybe. . ." He stopped to recapture the scene on the rocky slope. "I don't know exactly what it was, maybe vengeance. Anyway, I told him I was giving him a chance, but now I wonder if I ever really intended to allow him to live." Johnny reached out but Scott shook his head and waved his gesture away. "You see, I took hold of his shirtfront, then hauled him up."

"Scott––"

"I told him that what he'd done was unforgivable," Scott said with a ragged intake of breath. "Then I broke his neck."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Scott passed through the kitchen, pausing only long enough to ask Teresa to attend to Johnny, before heading out the back door.

There had been no mistaking the anguish etched on his features, yet she instinctively knew it was not because Johnny had taken a turn for the worse. Nevertheless, she dragged off her apron and made haste for Johnny's bedroom.

She rushed in to find Johnny asleep, peacefully snoring.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Jelly was surprised to find Scott's horse, Victory, stabled in the first stall when he entered the barn. He hadn't seen anyone bring the steed back, which bothered him because he prided himself on knowing everything that went on around the Lancer ranch.

One of the chores he'd been putting off was giving the stall a thorough cleaning in readiness for some much-needed repairs to the flooring. Even the feed trough had rotted out and needed to be replaced. The horse nickered and made an attempt to eat Jelly's hat, but the wrangler took hold of its halter and led him to another stall. "Now you belong here 'til someone gets a chance to wash you down, Vic," Jelly told Scott's horse. "Don't know what kind of hay-for-brains put you in there. You stink as bad as a turkey vulture, an' no wonder, with them making you carry that dead feller back to town."

Jelly shook his head and picked up a pitchfork to remove the old straw from the rear of the stall. A sound from behind startled him and he swung around.

A man spoke from the shadows. "No need to be startled. I mean no harm."

"Identify yerself," Jelly commanded as he raised his pitchfork in the direction of the voice.

"Martin Rinaldo." The Lancer's neighbor slowly came forward, his hands slightly raised, a friendly look on his face. "I was with the posse." He jerked his thumb in a direction behind him. "I was back in your tack room cleaning the saddle from the horse I brought back. There was blood on the leather."

Jelly didn't like the thought that this man had been skulking about the barn without his knowledge. "Too much havey-cavey goings-on around here," he said huffily. "Who told you to put Scott's horse in here? Any fool can see it's not safe, splinters and broken floorboards and the like. I moved him yonder."

"Mr. Lancer told me to put the horse in the barn, but I didn't notice the stall was dangerous - it was dark compared to the brightness outside," Rinaldo explained mildly. He pulled on his hat string and comfortably situated his hat on his head. With a touch of one finger, he pushed up the brim so it sat off his forehead. "I've finished cleaning the saddle, so I'll be on my way. Unless you want me to wash the horse down?"

"No, I can take care of Scott's horse, and all the animals hereabouts like I always do, thank you very much."

Rinaldo accepted being rebuffed with a good-natured smile and walked out into the corral. He collected his horse from where it had been tied out of sight, in the shade of a lean-to against the barn.

Jelly watched the slim man saunter across the corral, and wondered about him. Rinaldo had moved to the area about a year ago; nobody knew where he came from. The man had kept to himself mostly, just worked his ranch and occasionally went to town, like any other neighbor. But as far as Jelly knew, until a couple of days ago when Rinaldo had turned up with the sheriff, he had never visited the Lancer ranch, not even come to supper. When Rinaldo spoke he was spare with his words, yet Jelly was sure that there was something not quite right about the fellow.

Jelly went back to work, but when he glanced up a few minutes later, he almost dropped the broom he'd just taken hold of. There, across the yard, was Rinaldo, the reins of his horse in hand as he stood near the new bunkhouse, talking in a most friendly way to Harlan Garrett.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	13. Chapter 13

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 13 - THE GIFT

Murdoch was not gentle when questioning his younger son. He'd already been over to talk to Garrett that morning, accompanied by the sheriff, and he'd been unduly frustrated by the lack of results. Garrett had flatly refused to talk to them and had slammed the bunkhouse door in their faces.

"I'm telling you now, Johnny, my patience is wearing thin," Murdoch said with raised voice as he paced Johnny's bedroom floor. He paused only long enough to utter gruffly, "You'd better tell me what occurred in here yesterday."

Johnny levered himself up and shifted his hips on the mattress. It hurt a lot, but he knew from experience that making a series of smaller movements was better than one bigger one. He was getting antsy and wanted to be moved upstairs to his own bedroom, but so far nobody had suggested it. Even if it meant it inconvenienced the folks taking care of him, he knew he'd feel more secure in his own room. His gun was a table out of reach and he didn't think Murdoch was likely to hand it over to him any time soon. He was still too weak to do much for himself and his progress felt as slow as molasses, even if the family seemed to think his being alive was a miracle. He realized Murdoch was still awaiting a reply, so he responded, "What happened yesterday? You mean. . .Garrett?"

Johnny cleared his throat but before he could continue, his father interrupted. "Harlan Garrett came into my house and harmed my sons," Murdoch shouted, stabbing a finger in the general direction of Garrett's temporary quarters. "That. . . that man has injured you and now Scott is feeling guilty. I can't get it across to him that he didn't bring trouble upon this house, that he isn't accountable for Garrett's behavior. And you lie here suffering yet you won't condemn the man for what you damned well know he did!"

Johnny lay back and watched his father move around the room like a caged animal as he ranted about Garrett. He admired him for wanting to kick the old bastard out on his ass, but so far all they'd done was confine Garrett, as far as he knew. When Murdoch paused to take a breath, Johnny asked, "If you let him go. . . will Scott go. . . back to Boston with him?" It was still difficult to speak and he sounded like he'd eaten sand, but if he concentrated, he could get a few words out at a time.

Murdoch turned on his heel. "What? Where'd you hear that? Scott most certainly will not go anywhere with Garrett! I won't allow it!"

Johnny smiled. "Scott ain't some kid."

"Then tell me what went on. Tell me that Harlan Garrett is responsible!" When Johnny said nothing, but lowered his gaze, Murdoch grasped the footboard of the bed and gave it a small shake. "Johnny, you've faced many men down, so you can't expect me to believe that you're afraid of Garrett."

Johnny glared at his father. "It don't take a smart man to know when to back off. I been knifed before and by far better men than him."

Murdoch retorted, "Well, I'm not about to back off. Are you reluctant because he's kin to Scott? At least now he can see that Garrett is our prime suspect. Your brother may not have liked hearing that Garrett was under suspicion, but he isn't one to shirk either the truth or his responsibility."

Johnny's fingers clenched his bedding as he demanded angrily, "You ever know me to shirk my duty?" He took a ragged breath. "I might not do things your way. . . but I get them done." He coughed and desperately tried to refrain from wrapping his arms around his stomach. He was so angry his knees were shaking. "I was taught a long time ago that the only pain that matters is the pain you inflict," he spat.

Scrutinizing his son's livid face, Murdoch wondered who had taught Johnny such a terrible lesson about life. He composed himself before he spoke again. "I hope you don't still think that's the way to live, son. And no, you've never avoided facing what's right. Not before."

Johnny grew rigid with barely-contained resentment. "If you think that of me, then there ain't no reason for any more talking, is there?"

Seeing he wasn't going to get anywhere with his son, Murdoch said decisively, "I think it's time we got Garrett to talk." Johnny's only response was a harsh look, so Murdoch went in search of Scott.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

The sound of raised voices could be heard several feet from the Gunderson's front door. When Scott hesitantly raised his hand to knock, the door opened to reveal all six-feet-six inches of Gus Gunderson. The wounded man's arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged, his features etched with lines of stress and pain.

"Gus, you come away from that door and set right down," Ilsa scolded as she firmly pulled her husband back to an upholstered chair by the fire. She smoothed down her skirts and patted her hair, then turned to Scott. "Come in," she offered with a tentative smile. "I was just telling my husband he should be in bed."

Removing his hat, but stepping only just over the threshold, Scott nodded greetings to the couple. "I don't want to bother you folks, just thought I'd see how you're faring," he said.

Mrs. Gunderson waved any thought of his being trouble away and went to the stove to pour out some coffee. "Here, you sit with Mr. Gunderson and talk business. I must go and get the washing in," she said.

Scott went to join the large farmer, who looked more comfortable now he was sitting. Spread out on a table in front of him were large pieces of leather and a variety of tools. "You do good work, Sir," Scott said, indicating the pieces of leather decorated with carvings of scrolls and flowers.

"This is for a saddle that Mr. Rinaldo ordered." Gunderson picked up a sharp-looking chisel and pointed to some half-finished carving on what appeared to be the skirt of the saddle. "It is good money, but I am clumsy with only one hand," he said with a shrug. "I cannot sit here and do nothing." He indicated his damaged arm. "It hurts like hell, but at least my wife and family are safe now, thanks to you."

Scott waved away any credit for being part of the posse. "Healing takes time, so don't you overdo it. Rinaldo came over, did he?"

"Ya, he and other neighbors, they bring food, help with the stock. My little ones can do many chores," Gunderson said proudly, "but they are only little ones." He winced and clasped a hand to his injured shoulder, then looked intensely at Scott from under his brows. "My wife, she told me what those men did to her. She did not want to, but I could see there was something wrong. If they were not dead, I would wring their necks, ik wil hun ballen afsnijden for what they did to Ilsa. And also to your brother - I hear about Johnny Lancer. He is not doing so good as me?"

"Johnny had a set-back, but I believe he will recover fully." Scott was uncomfortably aware that the man was studying him keenly and he wasn't sure what Rinaldo had told the farmer.

Leaning close to Scott, with a glance to make sure his wife was out of earshot, Gunderson said, "I hear things that I do not want to believe." He waited but when he got no response, he continued, "Your brother, he was attacked with a knife. By your mother's father's own hand? This is true?"

When he raised his eyes to meet the pale blue ones of the farmer, Scott expected to see a curious, prying look. Instead, he found that Gunderson appeared mournful, as if he had experienced the death of a relative. Despite his better instincts, Scott solemnly nodded his head.

Gunderson patted Scott's knee with one large hand. "I was taught that children bear the guilt of the father, but in this country we start out fresh, like we are new men. I know. My own father, he did things no son would forgive, back in the old country, or so I thought. Now my pater is dead and the world is better for it, and I can raise my family without the. . . I don't know the word. What is it when there is a black mark on your good name?"

"Stigma?" Scott suggested.

"Ya, stigma. Now if he was here I wonder if I would make things good between us again." He shook his head sadly and wiped his eyes. "But then I say vervloek the old man for what he did."

Mrs. Gunderson stepped back into the front room, bearing a basket laden with clean clothing. She asked with some confusion, "You brought your children, Mr. Lancer?"

Rising from his seat, Scott joined her in the doorway.

Out in the field were three small children, their pale blond hair marking them as the Gunderson's offspring. Helping them back a large workhorse into the traces of a plow were two older boys. Their dark heads were bent as they aided the smaller children to buckle up the harness.

"No, Ma'am," Scott said with a sideways grin. "I don't have any children." Mrs. Gunderson raised her brows, awaiting an explanation, and Scott turned to include Gus in his reply. "I brought them for you."

Gunderson said, "We need no more children."

"Oh no, no, they're not here for you to take in. You see, I went by town and found these two boys in need of work. They come from Santo Monterro."

Mrs. Gunderson exclaimed, "Ah, they are orphans! Poor things."

"We need no orphans to feed," Mr. Gunderson said adamantly.

Scott held up his hands. "Wait! The Brothers have trained these boys to farm, and they're eager to work. They'll be happy to sleep out in the barn for a couple of weeks. They rode over on their mule, so he can help, too. It's only until you're back on your feet, Mr. Gunderson. It's all arranged."

The Gundersons looked at each other, silently questioning whether or not to accept the help they knew they needed. It was Mrs. Gunderson who pivoted back to Scott. "We can't pay much-"

"There is no cost to you, Mrs. Gunderson. Now, don't protest, because I won't hear it. The Brothers loan out their pupils as a sort of final test, to make sure they are ready to go out into the world. And the children will gain a great deal from the experience."

Gus slowly stood, hooked his injured arm into the front of his overalls and watched the children working together. They eventually got the Belgian horse moving along the furrows, with the two older boys using their combined weight to work the plow. "I was a carpenter's apprentice when I was a boy." He nodded. "Ya, goot way to learn. How long do they stay?"

Scott peered out at the boys, now struggling to turn the horse and almost losing control of the plow as they came about. He'd only met them a few hours earlier, but on the ride over he'd been able to talk with them enough to feel confident that they were willing and able to do the job. The older of the two brothers was fifteen and big for his age. His brother, two years his junior, was good-natured and conscientious. The Gundersons were fortunate to have them to help with the farm. "They're on loan for thirty, er, sixty days," Scott said.

Gunderson reached out to shake Scott's hand. "Goot neighbors, all goot neighbors."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Cipriano and Isidro relished their assignment. They brought Harlan Garrett across the patio and jerked him to a halt just outside the open doors to Johnny's room.

Garrett wrenched his arms out of the none-too-gentle grasp of his guards and took one step forward into the bedroom. He was faced with Johnny, sitting up in bed, looking pallid but not quite the invalid he had expected to see. The half-breed's expression was unreadable. The blue eyes, one with the lid swollen half-shut, looked at him impassively, but Garrett felt like he was being scrutinized by a lion sure of his next meal. He broke out into a cold sweat.

Murdoch and Scott's feelings, however, were more blatant. They stood on either side of the bed like sentries, their anger barely concealed. The girl, Teresa, was present, arm-in-arm with the Mexican woman who had refused to cook his meals. They were both frowning at him, their feelings ill-disguised.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Murdoch wasn't going to waste any time. The sheriff had suggested this face-to-face, thinking that it would cast fear into Harlan Garrett and that he would confess when confronted by all the Lancer men at once. Scott, who had only just returned from the Gunderson's place, had readily agreed to the plan. Even so, Murdoch considered it unlikely that Garrett would admit to any wrongdoing, even if caught red-handed. So it was up to Johnny to speak up and they could get on with pressing charges against their Boston visitor.

"Johnny," Murdoch asked firmly, as if in a court of law, "did this man, Harlan Garrett, at any time, either in Morro Coyo, or in this house, hurt you?"

For the first time since they had dragged Garrett over to the main house from his temporary jail, Johnny looked away from the man. Blood pounded in his ears and his mouth went dry. He certainly wasn't afraid, as his father had suggested earlier, but the time had come for him to make a decision that would impact everyone's lives. He needed a moment to consider his reply. Even as he thought about it, Johnny knew that he'd made his choice already - hours ago - and there was no changing it.

"Johnny?" prompted Scott, his voice loud in the suddenly quiet room.

Johnny's first attempt to speak resulted in a croak. Annoyed, he cleared his throat and met the eyes of the old man who stood accused. Leaning forward slightly he said clearly, and with conviction, "No. No he didn't hurt me." Even as he absolved Garrett from blame, Johnny let Scott's grandfather know with one look, and with absolutely no doubt, that he should consider himself a marked man.

Startled that Johnny hadn't pointed an accusatory finger at him, Garrett took a few seconds to digest the news. Regaining his composure, Garrett started to complain about the way the Lancers had treated him by keeping him a veritable prisoner, but with one look at Murdoch's grim scowl, he backed away and fled the room.

Stunned that Johnny had released his attacker from any responsibility, his guards stood in place until Murdoch indicated they should keep an eye on Garrett.

"Are you sure?" asked Murdoch, trying to catch Johnny's lowered gaze.

"I'm sure," Johnny replied as he slipped down in the bed. He could feel Scott's stare boring into him as Teresa protested that Harlan was getting away with it, and he feared he hadn't fooled any of them.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

It was evening when Scott returned to his brother's side. Maria was finishing an application of ointment on the stitched wound on Johnny's back. Stepping up, Scott offered to help her. They spoke only to give each other instructions as they re-bandaged Johnny's torso.

With a pat on Johnny's shoulder, Maria smiled and said, "Les veré mas tarde. . ." Picking up a tray bearing an empty soup bowl and a plate with only a few crumbs of Scott's birthday cake remaining on it, she returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner for the family.

Once she was gone, Scott helped his brother don a set of under-drawers. "I see you ate some real food," Scott said as he settled into a chair and picked up a newspaper. "That's a sure sign you're feeling better."

Johnny grunted. "Cake was good. Better than the slop the doctor ordered."

"Soon enough you'll be up and about. Perhaps you can go over and entertain my grandfather. Maybe take a slice of cake over to him."

Johnny glared at Scott even though his brother has his nose deep in the newspaper. "'Fraid not."

"He's probably pretty lonely over in the bunkhouse and could use some company. God knows nobody else on this ranch will speak to him."

Johnny shook his head in exasperation.

Perusing the headlines, Scott asked, "Did you read about the men up in Carson City who got away with murder, and all because the witnesses were suddenly struck dumb and blind?" He looked over the top of the paper at Johnny.

Turning his head away, Johnny mumbled something inaudible.

"I'm sorry but I didn't hear you," Scott said acidly. "Was that some kind of confession, brother?"

Johnny's head whipped back towards his brother. Loudly, he shot, "I said, maybe they got a good reason."

Shaking his head, Scott let out a huff of breath. "Huh."

"Look, I don't need you sittin' there watching me sleep, thanks all the same."

"I'm not watching you, I'm reading. Maybe I can find something to read to you." He put the newspaper aside and picked up a book from a small pile of reading material on the table by his side. Scott realized it was one of his grandfather's books, left behind when he'd been ousted from the upstairs guest bedroom. "You might find this book amusing, Johnny: _A Gentleman's Western Travel Companion_. It says here that 'one should always be on the alert for disreputable fellow travelers.'. There's an illustration that goes with it of a Mexican wearing bandoleros of ammunition and pants that look suspiciously like the ones you wear." Scott held it up for him to see, but his brother feigned disinterest.

There was a long silence broken only by the sound of pages being turned.

Johnny looked out the window for a while, then said, "I might as well get used to being alone. You'll be goin' back to Boston with him, anyway." He turned his head on the pillow to face Scott's blue-gray eyes staring at him with a stern expression that would have crushed a lesser man.

"How dare you suggest," Scott said, "that I would accompany him anywhere, after all of this?"

Johnny tried to quell the hope that Scott's reaction raised in him. "I don't want you to have anything to do with him, is all. He'll always have a line tied to you, brother."

Scott took his time replying. "I plan to personally escort my grandfather to Green River and see that he gets on the Overland Stage, then heads due east. And that will be the end of it. He won't return. I won't ever see him again. Isn't that what you wanted? To cut him loose?"

"You're sure," Johnny asked cautiously, "you won't never see him again?"

"I think Grandfather has permanently worn out his welcome, don't you?" Scott laughed bitterly and raised the book to continue reading. He turned the pages without really looking at the content. "How about we talk about something else? Maybe when you're better we can plan that long-overdue trip to San Francisco?" When Johnny didn't reply, Scott glanced up.

Johnny laid very still, his hands folded over his stomach, deep in thought. "Scott?"

"Mmm?"

"You gonna be sore at me for a long time? For not pointing the finger at Harlan, I mean?"

Scott put the book aside and gave his full attention to Johnny. "I only want to know the truth. Even if it hurts, you owe it to all of us."

Johnny's eyes opened in surprise. "The truth'll hurt you a whole heck of a lot more than me."

"Look, Johnny, the moment I saw my grandfather's face this morning, when he was escorted in here to face you, it was obvious he was guilty. You didn't have to say a word." Scott hung his head for a few moments, then straightened up in his chair and pulled it closer to the bed. "Now all I want is for you to say it aloud. I want to hear it from your own lips that he's the one who attacked you, because there can't be any doubt when dealing with my grandfather." He searched for the right words for a minute, and when he spoke, his voice was low with restraint. "I'm deeply ashamed of what my grandfather has done. I know you try to hide it when you feel pain, Johnny, and I guess you think you're sparing me some kind of pain by keeping tight-lipped, but I didn't expect you to be dishonest."

Johnny slowly shook his head. "Honesty is one of those things folks ask for but don't really want."

"I want it. You seem to be under the misguided impression that I need to be protected. I don't. You're the only person around here who hasn't blamed my grandfather aloud so far."

"Even if we both know what that old man did, the cost of bringing charges against him would be as bad for you. . . for us. . . as they would for him. Best to let it go."

There was a light tapping on the door and Murdoch came in, cautiously smiling. "I didn't want you to think we'd forgotten your birthday, Scott." He held a small box, but instead of giving it to Scott, he handed it to Johnny.

Johnny's face lit up with recognition at the sight of the box. Covered in burgundy velvet, it fit into the palm of his hand. He turned it over, cast a swift look up at Murdoch, then offered it to his brother. "Sorry I ruined your birthday, Scott."

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	14. Chapter 14

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 14 - THE TOWER

"Well go ahead and open it, Scott." Johnny's eyes were bright with expectation.

Scott turned the small box over in his hand. "You sure it won't bite?" he asked with narrowed eyes. Whatever it was, it appeared to be a present from both his brother and his father, from the way they were looking at each other.

Murdoch leaned against the bedpost and grinned down at Johnny. "It was your brother's idea," he said. "Go ahead, Scott."

"Yeah, but you knew where to send for it," Johnny acknowledged.

Slowly opening the hinged box, Scott peered inside. On black velvet folds sat a heavy gold signet ring, its face bearing the relief of a heraldic shield. He took it out, smiling with pleasure.

Johnny cut into his effusive thank-yous with an explanation of how to use it, but Scott wasn't really listening. He looked closely at the engraved shield and took note of what appeared to be the Lancer coat of arms. "I didn't think we had a family crest," he said.

Johnny rolled onto his side and reached over to point out the details of the incised crest. "That there's a fortress and those little guys are lions rampaging-"

"Rampant," corrected Murdoch under his breath.

"Yeah, rampant. They look like they're fighting over the tower, but I think they're just standing up on their hind legs 'cause they're proud. Like brothers," Johnny added.

Teresa stuck her head in and when she saw Scott had already opened his gift, her face fell. "Sorry I'm late. Be right back." She disappeared, only to return a minute later with a package wrapped in tissue paper and kitchen string. "Happy birthday, Scott," she said as she gave the blond man a quick kiss on the mouth.

"I really didn't expect this," he said as he unwrapped Teresa's gift to him. From the folds of the paper he pulled a box of sealing wax and a leather match safe, full of red-tipped matches. "I don't know what to say, except thank you all. And for baking the cake, as well, Teresa."

"I was happy to do it. You know I enjoy baking," Teresa said. "It would have disappeared in one sitting if Johnny hadn't been confined to bed." She grinned and gave Johnny's dark hair a ruffle, careful to avoid the place where he'd been struck only a couple of days earlier. She took hold of Scott's hand to inspect the heavy ring in his palm. "You can stick down all of your important papers with your own seal now."

"People will know letters come from you even before they open them," Johnny added. He grinned and teased, "It'll give your old girlfriends the chance to throw them out without having to open them to see who they're from."

"And the lawyers and bankers will sit up and take notice," Teresa said. "They'll see your sign and know it's an important letter from their biggest-ever customer."

Johnny looked at her curiously, but before he could ask what she meant, Murdoch ushered her out. "Let's go have some dinner, young lady, and let Johnny get some rest. Scott, you coming?"

"In a short while," he said. "I need to talk to Johnny for a few minutes."

When they'd gone, Scott offered his brother a drink, puffed up his pillows and did everything he could to avoid telling him about the money he'd inherited. He wasn't sure why, but he suspected that Johnny was not going to accept the news with good will. Not that his brother would begrudge him his good fortune, but he'd see it as something that set them apart. And there was nothing that Scott feared more than something coming between them, particularly money.

"You done with fiddlin' around?" Johnny asked. "Just sit and say whatever's on your mind. If this is about your grandfather. . . if it means so much to you, I'll tell the sheriff what I remember. Not that I can tell you who knifed me-"

"No, it has nothing to do with that. I need to tell you something." Scott eyed Johnny as he considered his brother's change of heart regarding talking about how he'd sustained his injuries. "You'll talk to Gabe, then? One of the men can take a message to him tomorrow when they're done with. . ." He couldn't face taking his grandfather to meet the stage, and had already asked Isidro and another man to do the task without him.

"You gonna try the ring on, already?"

Scott sat on the end of the bed and picked up the signet ring again. It felt heavy, solid, and warmed to his skin as soon as he slid it on his finger. He held up his hand to show it off. "It fits very well."

" _Now_ you look the dandy," Johnny said, then slapped his brother on the knee, using his left hand. His right was still swollen and unusable. He'd been soaking it in cold tea-water, but he couldn't say with any certainty that it had helped, even if it felt better. He cajoled, "C'mon, out with it."

Taking a deep breath, Scott said, "On my birthday I not only gained another year, but a very large inheritance." A glance at Johnny showed his brother patiently waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"How large?" Johnny asked indifferently.

"Large."

"Hmmm." Johnny leaned back on his pillows and carefully adjusted his shoulder to avoid leaning on his tender wound. "So what's the problem?"

"I may have to go to Boston to-."

Johnny quickly sat up, the unwitting move causing him to flinch. Breath whistled between his teeth with a hiss. "You said you weren't going back with him!"

"I'm not. This has nothing to do with Grandfather."

"Like hell it hasn't! I told you that old bastard was going to yank at your strings, Scott, and damned if he isn't doing it already. I thought you were going to toss him out tomorrow. Be rid of him forever-"

"Hold your horses! You going to let me tell you about what's going on or not?"

"Fine." Johnny settled back with an exaggerated look of patience on his face. He waved a hand to indicate Scott should proceed, but he couldn't help the resentment showing in his eyes.

"My grandfather did come here with news and documents regarding this inheritance, but he has nothing to do with it. No control over it in any regard. I want to make that clear." Scott waited for Johnny to break in again, but no sharp retorts appeared to be forthcoming, so Scott continued, "This isn't my money to do anything I want with. It's communal property, really. Many members of my grandmother's family rely on the businesses and dividends that the family fortune makes."

Johnny asked, "You mean you're the boss of your family business now?"

"I suppose you could say that. I've been thinking about what to do about it. I can't see that I can make the right decisions for the family from so far away, but apart from an initial trip to settle the estate, I don't have any intention of staying back East."

"You're talking about something real big, aren't you?" Johnny realized that Scott had fallen, by default, into the position of the head of a remote family. "You know any of this Eastern family?"

Scott shook his head slightly. "I met some old aunties when I was a child. A second cousin or two in my college years, but my grandfather didn't get along with the maternal side of the family. He held them at bay, said they were all spongers." He shrugged, but the worried lines around his eyes gave his true feelings away.

"So. . . " Johnny said with raised eyebrows. "This all sounds mighty serious. Is this what got Garrett all twisted over? This is what he thought I'd interfere with?"

"What did he say to you?"

Johnny gave a half-shrug. "Something about how you were destined for greatness." He suddenly laughed. "Like we don't already know that, right?"

"I'm just a one-third owner of a ranch that needs all the help it can get to stay running smoothly," Scott said with a sideways grin.

"What's this business you inherited? Not ranching."

"No, not that I'm aware of. I haven't seen all the details yet. Shipping."

"Shipping? You mean. . . like a boat?"

"Uh, more along the lines of a shipping fleet. Transport of goods, I believe." Johnny was waiting patiently for him to continue, so Scott added, "Also ironworks. Some heavy industry. I think my maternal great-grandfather was the one who started that company. My grandmother's family was mostly girls, but they married well-off men, for the most part, and they acquired shares in various companies. It keeps growing and now is too large to handle easily. It's become cumbersome."

"And the family fortune is controlled by. . . by who?" Johnny asked.

"By the male successors. That's my role at the moment. Look, you're obviously tired, Johnny. We can talk about this later."

"No, no, you have to tell me the rest."

"There isn't much more to tell. There's a railroad, though. It's mentioned in the paperwork my grandfather handed over to me. Now that might be of some interest. It's not far from here, a spur that runs up to Salinas."

"Exactly what is this small fortune worth?"

Scott finally uttered the words. "Twenty million. Are you all right, Johnny? You need a drink or something?"

"What?"

"Do you need some water-?"

"What? No, I don't need water." Johnny brushed the offer away impatiently. "What was that amount again?"

"Twenty million," Scott said quietly.

In reply, Johnny shouted, "Dollars?"

"No, pesos," Scott retorted sarcastically. "Of course dollars!"

Falling back onto his propped-up pillows, Johnny stared at his blond brother, with mouth slightly agape as he digested the sheer size of the inheritance. When Scott started to say something, Johnny held up a hand to stop him.

Scott looked worriedly at his brother, afraid that it had been too much information, shocking in its scope. Johnny's head dropped forward until his chin hit his chest. With his features hidden, his body started to shake. Seriously concerned, Scott clasped a steadying hand to his brother's quaking shoulder. To his amazement, when Johnny raised his face, he was laughing. Not just a humorous grin, but a belly-shaking laugh, one that must be hurting him a great deal, the way it shook his entire body.

His arms gripping his stomach, Johnny hooted until tears rolled down his cheeks. "Whoo-ee!" he exclaimed. "You're as rich as a king! Who'd have ever thought?" His laughter was cut into by a coughing fit, and when it stopped, he lay back exhausted, still smiling.

Trying not to grin, but getting caught up in his brother's glee, Scott retorted, "Don't get too attached to the notion of me being a king. I've been thinking about this a lot the last couple of days and I believe the best thing for everyone concerned is for me to disburse the family holdings into smaller parcels."

With careful breaths, Johnny managed to ask, "You gonna. . . give it all. . . away?"

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I intend to do." Faced with an alarmed look from his brother, Scott added, "I'll get a share, and there is one business I just might retain."

"Which?"

"The railroad. It's the B.R. & F.C.G. Railway. Sort of a mouthful. Needs changing."

"Somethin' with "Scott" in it, you mean?"

"Maybe. I was thinking more along the lines of calling it the S.W.L. & J.M.L. Railway. No," he reconsidered. "That still sounds like an alphabet soup. Maybe just: the Lancer Line?"

"You mean it?"

"If it's going to be a Lancer railroad, we'd better make darned sure folks know who's running the show."

"My brother, the tycoon," Johnny said. He sighed and closed his eyes. "Lord, I'm tired."

"I'll leave you to sleep, then." The only reply was a mumble, so Scott headed out, leaving the door ajar behind him.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Jelly had finished pulling up most of the rotted wood from the floor of the end stall, and it had been exhausting work. He'd been working by lamplight for some time, but hadn't realized it was so late until Scott poked his head in to let him know he was closing up the barn for the night.

"You get some sleep, Jelly. It'll still be here in the morning," Scott suggested.

Glancing out the open side door, Jelly nodded his head to the bunkhouse across the corral, where he could see the lights were still on. "Someone's gotta keep watch, just in case," he said sourly.

Scott looked at the bunkhouse, where the shadow of Harlan Garrett could be seen moving behind the blind. "He'll be gone tomorrow. Who's on guard?" He motioned towards a obscure figure sitting at the end of the bunkhouse's new covered porch. Even as he peered at the Lancer man who'd been assigned to keep an eye on Garrett, he saw a woman quickly cross the yard to join the man.

Jelly joined Scott in the open door of the barn. "That there is Cipriano's oldest. Lookee there, his sweetheart has come around again. Like clockwork. Men never get no peace," he bemoaned.

Scott slung an arm around Jelly's neck. "Some day, Jelly, you're going to have to tell me about the lady who soured you on all women."

"Aw, get on with ya." Jelly pushed the blond man away with a frown.

With a laugh, Scott moved across the corral, heading for the bunkhouse. He stopped at the gate to pick up the book he'd left there before he'd gone to talk to Jelly. As he thought about the task ahead of him, all his good humor evaporated.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Harlan Garrett ignored the book his grandson proffered to him. "You've come to ask forgiveness, I hope?"

"No. I'm only here to tell you that there will be a carriage out front first thing in the morning to drive you to the railhead. Someone will bring you breakfast and you will be leaving an hour afterwards." Scott watched the hopeful expectation on his grandfather's face drop and turn to disbelief. He had no sympathy for the old man, and was surprised to find he had no feeling in his heart for him any more. Every vestige of familial connection had been severed, and he was relieved. No longer was he responsible for Garrett's behavior, even if in a tenuous way. "Your book. . . you left it in the house." He held it out at arms' length and Garrett snatched it from him without even looking at it.

"You must be pleased with yourself, Scottie, for bringing me to my knees. Is this what your inheritance has brought us to? You get grasp of a little power and you use it to manipulate-"

"Don't even start!" Scott warned. "You have spent your entire life twisting people and situations to suit your needs. Well, this is one man you can't manipulate, grandfather." Scott half- turned away, then pivoted on his heel to face the old man again. He leaned into Garrett, poking a finger at his chest to emphasize his words. "You won't ever come back here, " he ordered. "Not to this ranch. If I even get wind that you're in this state I'm going to hire myself a south-of-the-border gunman and set him upon you. You have harmed my family for the last time. And don't get any ideas about getting back at us from Boston. I'm going to make sure that you cause no more harm to anyone, if it's the last thing I do!"

Garrett was shaken, his face blanched of color as Scott threatened him. It was as if a stranger was standing before him, a tall, blond man with features twisted in hatred - a man who had somehow consumed his precious Scottie.

Scott moved for the door, but as he did, he caught sight of a piece of paper lying on the floorboards. Without thinking, he scooped it up and dropped it on the table as he walked out. Two steps outside the door, he stopped. Slowly, he turned back and, without entering the bunkhouse, reached inside to pick up the paper again. It was an advertisement postal card with fancy type over an engraving of a scenic picture.

Harlan hadn't moved an inch. He stood watching Scott, seeing the stern look on his grandson's face turn to wide-eyed realization. The gray-blue eyes raised to look straight at him, and on their surface was a mixture of shock and accusation.

Scott held up the postcard that had doubled as a bookmark.

Garrett recognized it as coming from the hotel in which he'd rested for two days on his journey to California.

"You were in Wyoming," Scott stated.

"What of it? I took a short respite in Jackson Waters. Is that suddenly a criminal offense? Please go now. I have to pack. After all, I'm being evicted at some un-Godly hour, as you may remember," Garrett said haughtily.

With an unmistakable aura of menace, Scott stepped forward, waving the card under the nose of the retreating man. "You hired those two men in Wyoming!"

"I don't know what you're referring to, but I certainly don't like your tone of voice, Scott." As Scott moved in on him, Garrett sidled backwards until he was forced up against a chair. Unable to take his eyes off the man who advanced upon him, Garrett felt around behind him, trying to find a way around the impediment. His hand discovered his walking stick resting across the chair, and his fingers clenched around the familiar shaft.

"You hired the two men to waylay my brother," Scott said angrily. "You arranged for them to hold him down while you knifed him. I knew you had suffocated Johnny, even if he didn't say so, but I'd hoped. . . I'd hoped you weren't the one who'd set those men on him in town. My God, how could you think you could get away with this? I was so stupid, so damned blind! I could kill you for causing so much suffering!"

Scott's accusations were spoken with murderous fury, and for the first time ever, Harlan Garrett was afraid of his own grandson. Without thinking, he raised his walking stick and brought it crashing down on Scott's head.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Jelly stepped out of the hacienda's front door onto the verandah, a large slice of Scott's birthday cake in his hand. As he took a big, satisfying bite, he saw a sliver of light shining through a chink in the barn. Sure he'd extinguished the lamps when he'd finished working on the stall half an hour earlier, he went to investigate.

When Jelly was half way across the yard, the light went out, and a moment later a man slipped from the barn, then crept from one deep shadow to another. The furtiveness of the dark figure was enough to convince Jelly that it wasn't the young man guarding Old Man Garrett, but someone who was up to no good.

Jelly rushed to intercept the man, keeping low and moving as quietly as possible, trying to take him unawares. When he passed the bunkhouse, he spotted Cipriano's son, Juan, sitting on a rocker in a dark corner of the porch.

The young man stood hesitantly, then seemed to realize that Jelly was stalking a prowler. He left his job guarding Garrett to join forces with Jelly, and both men kept low along the adobe walls of the old guardhouse as they shadowed the stealthy man.

They were about thirty feet behind the intruder, yet apparently the man still wasn't aware that Jelly and Juan were closing in on him. Sprinting ahead, Juan took a leap, tackling him as Jelly warned, "Look out! Knife!" Together they wrestled the struggling man down to the ground, their fists finding their marks blindly in the darkness of the yard.

Their shouts alerted several of the ranch hands who came spilling out of the old bunkhouse. Not even stopping to pull up their suspenders, the wranglers pitched in, using their fists on the struggling man, disarming him with more luck than skill. Within minutes, the trespasser was hog-tied and subdued.

Murdoch emerged from the hacienda. He shouted, "What's going on out here?"

From the excited replies from the self-congratulating men, he gathered they had caught a dangerous criminal. "Let him up. Bring him into the light," Murdoch ordered.

It took seven men to do the task. The limp body was dragged forward by his arms, the man's dark head dangling close to the ground. One ranch hand brandished the seized knife in the air, its serrated blade gleaming wickedly in the light from the house. When the small mob reached the verandah, Jelly grabbed a handful of the unconscious man's hair to display his face. Murdoch immediately recognized the bloodied victim of the self-appointed vigilantes as their neighbor, Mr. Rinaldo.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	15. Chapter 15

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 15 - NIGHT SOUNDS

Teresa tiptoed past Johnny as he lay peacefully asleep in the darkened bedroom. She dropped down on her knees and groped around beneath the chair where she had been seated earlier in the evening.

A loud voice questioned, "What the heck are you doin' down there?"

She jumped to her feet and spun around to find Johnny awake, rubbing his eyes drowsily. "Johnny! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. I'm just looking for my bag. My knitting's in it." She gave up her task and turned up the wick on the lamp, giving a cozy glow to the curtained room. "Maybe I left it out on the patio."

She stroked a gentle hand down the side of Johnny's face. "You need some more witch hazel on your jaw and neck, but it looks better. Do you want some soup? It's warming on the stove."

"Later," Johnny replied, his attention focused on some point past Teresa. He propped himself up on his elbow. "You hear that?"

"No, I don't hear anything. . . wait, yes, now I do." She moved to the patio door, swept the long drape aside and pulled down the bolt. Opening the glass-paned door a few inches, letting the cool night air in, Teresa cocked her head to listen. The sound of several raised voices could be heard. "I think there's something going on out front. You want me to go and see?"

Alarmed, Johnny warned, "No! Don't go that way, Teresa!" Even as he called out, struggling to sit up in his bed, the girl slipped out the door, unheeding. "Wait! Get me my gun-Damn it," he cried. His gut told him that there was something seriously wrong and his sense of unease grew when Teresa didn't return.

Concerned, he felt a strong need to have his gun in hand. It was sitting on a table across the room; it might as well have been across the yard for all his inability to get hold of it.

Cursing both the girl and his incapacity, Johnny rolled onto his side with some difficulty. He sat upright, one hand gripping his back. His weakened muscles protested, but despite the twinges and worse, he managed to get his feet firmly planted on the floor. With caution, Johnny put his weight on his legs and when his knees didn't give way, he was relieved.

Leaning over like an old man crippled with rheumatism, Johnny slowly shuffled to the end of his bed. He gripped the baseboard for a minute, caught his breath, and then staggered across the room towards the washbasin. As he crashed into it, grabbing the marble top in desperation, he clung to it and miraculously remained on his feet. Despite his weak legs, he was able to stand on his own.

Breathing heavily from the exertion of walking the few feet across the room, he gathered his remaining strength and grabbed his gun belt. Steadying his body with his good arm gripping the washstand, he clumsily pulled his gun from the belt with his wounded hand. Unable to properly hold onto the gun, he leaned on the sturdy furniture long enough to tuck it into the waistband of his long johns. With great care, Johnny worked his way around the room until he got to the patio door. The sounds he'd heard earlier were no longer audible, and the whole house seemed unnaturally quiet. Even the night birds seemed to be holding their breath.

He leaned on the doorjamb, pulled out his gun, and holding it with his left hand, he pulled back the hammer. Taking a big breath, he muttered, "Guess it's gonna be Lefty Lancer, after all," and opened the door to let in the dark night.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"Leave Rinaldo in here until he comes to," Murdoch ordered the men gathered around the outer room of the old Spanish guardhouse. Although Rinaldo didn't appear to be seriously injured, and most of the blood on his face had come from his nose, he was insensible. They'd deposited him in one of the two small cells, and as far as Murdoch was concerned, he could stay there indefinitely. This is where Garrett should have been locked up, right from the start, he thought.

Murdoch took possession of the knife, seeing not just an ugly-looking blade, but also the mental image of Johnny as he had been when he'd been brought home: ripped apart and close to bleeding to death. "Last thing we need is anyone else getting hurt."

"That the one that he used on Johnny?" Jelly asked in a hushed voice.

"We won't know until this man recovers consciousness. Let's not be overzealous again, men." He looked past the few Lancer ranch hands, who seemed pleased with their capture and not a bit embarrassed about their roughness. Murdoch realized that someone was missing. "Where's Scott?" He saw Juan at the back of the crowd and even as the young man returned his gaze, they both had the same thought: nobody was watching Harlan Garrett. Juan turned on his heel and ran for the bunkhouse.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Harlan Garrett knew he'd made a grave mistake.

He panicked and ran from the scene when he saw Scott lying in a crumpled heap on the new pine flooring of the bunkhouse. As soon as he got outside he took in gulping breaths of the night air, but it did nothing to calm his shattered nerves.

His mind in turmoil, he couldn't decide how to proceed. He had struck down the one person he could call family, and even if Scott forgave him for doing such an untenable thing, the boy would never absolve him for killing his half-breed brother. Not that Scott would ever know for sure that he'd been behind the initial attack, now that the two men he'd hired were dead in the ground.

The only thing Harlan knew for a certainty was that he had to finish what he'd bungled, not once, but twice already. With Johnny gone, Scott would give up on the fool notion of being a rancher, a lifestyle not suited to him at all. He'd go into politics and be Governor of Massachusetts within five years. With his wealth and power, he'd soon forget all about this rustic life he'd irrationally thought of as a cure for whatever ailed him. Yes, it was up to him to get rid of all impediments to his grandson's success, and one day he'd come around and accept that it was all for the best. "Third time's a charm," he whispered.

Surveying the dark porch and yard, Harlan saw the young man who'd been guarding him had left his post. Suddenly he caught sight of movement as two figures skulked along the corral fence, apparently stalking another furtive figure.

With nobody around to stop him, Garrett took the opportunity to dash across the empty yard and headed straight for the walled patio, his walking stick clutched in his hand.

The hacienda had only a few lights on, and within the walls of the patio the shadows were deep. The only light that cast upon the patio came from the glass door in the far corner - the ground floor bedroom where he knew his quarry lay helpless. Opening the gate with caution, Harlan crept into the courtyard, his eye fixed on his goal.

All of a sudden a girl slipped out of the lit doorway and walked straight towards him. Harlan ducked down in the cover of some dense foliage growing near the trickling fountain, but it appeared she hadn't seen him. The girl, who he recognized as Teresa, walked rapidly past the place he was hiding, but just when he thought he was in the clear, she stopped just this side of the gate, one hand on the latch.

There were shouts from across the yard and several men burst from the old bunkhouse, running to join a scuffle that ensued.

Harlan heard the muffled voice of Johnny calling to the girl from his room, summoning her back, but either she hadn't heard him or she was more interested in the group of men who were now beating up their hapless prey in front of the house. She opened the chest-high gate and ran towards the front of the hacienda.

Harlan waited a couple of minutes to make sure that she had gone, then he bent over to scrape off some muck that was stuck to the bottom of his shoe. When he stepped away from his place of leafy concealment, he tripped up on something soft. He felt around and discovered it was only a bag, full of yarn and knitting needles. He grumbled under his breath at the annoyance and when he straightened up, he was shaken to see there was someone standing right in front of him.

Harlan Garrett started to form a justification for his presence in the patio, but there was a dreadful, agonizing blow delivered to the side of his neck and all that spewed from his open mouth was his own life's blood.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

When Juan arrived at the new bunkhouse, he found nothing but a smear of blood on the floor. The lamps were lit but neither Scott nor Garrett was anywhere to be seen.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Murdoch ordered the men to fan out and scour the outbuildings for any sign of Scott or of Harlan Garrett. "And when you find Garrett, bring him back here to the guardhouse. We'll lock him up where he belongs," he barked with a fury born of fear for his missing son as much as for his hatred for Garrett.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

A shout of discovery could be heard echoing through the house, and Murdoch hurried to the source.

Scott was sitting in the kitchen, his face and hands covered in blood.

A towel was held to his forehead by Jelly in an effort to staunch the flow. The old wrangler was grouching, "What in tarnation you're thinking of, scaring the bejeesus outta your folks is beyond me." He saw Murdoch and said in an aside, "It don't seem to be as serious as it looks."

Murdoch gently pulled the towel away from his son's scalp to assess the damage. There was a gash above the hairline, and it would require a stitch or two. Scott's gray-blue eyes blinked heavily, as if he wasn't quite aware of what was going on. "Jelly," Murdoch said, "Fetch me some cold water and another towel, then go and find Maria or Teresa. And get some bandages out of the pantry before you go." One look at Scott told him his son wasn't going to remain upright in the armless kitchen chair for long.

Murdoch pulled up a chair next to Scott's and took a seat. "Who did this to you?" he asked, once Jelly had left. Covering his son's hand with his own in order to ensure the towel was pressed hard on the gash, he said in a soothing tone, "Jelly's right. There's a lot of blood, but it's not too bad."

His voice slurring a little, Scott eyed his father and said, "Garrett."

"Your grandfather hit you?" Murdoch was incredulous.

"Not. . ." Scott swallowed and closed his eyes. He swayed in the chair, but caught himself and opened them again. "He's not my grandfather any more," he said between gritted teeth, his eyes displaying his anger in a way that mere words could not express.

With a supporting arm around his son's shoulders, Murdoch got him up on his feet just as Cipriano and Maria arrived. Together they assisted Scott to walk to the great room and settled him on a couch, his head supported by extra cushions. Maria made fast work of binding up Scott's head and was soon back in the kitchen, brewing some tea for him.

"Cipriano, you stay with Scott," Murdoch said. "I'm going to make sure that Johnny is secure. Good thing he can't get out of bed."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

When Murdoch entered Johnny's dimly lit bedroom, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Johnny's bed, empty, with the covers pulled back and stained with brilliant red, fresh blood.

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	16. Chapter 16

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 16 - THE FOUNTAIN

Seeing the deserted and bloodstained bed, Murdoch immediately turned on his heel to leave and raise the alarm, but stopped short when he caught sight of Johnny leaning against the washstand, a sponge in hand. With its cabinet and basin hidden behind the partially open door, he'd almost missed seeing his son standing next to it. There was a pile of discarded bandages on the floor at Johnny's feet, the water in the basin was colored pink, and the sutured wound in his back was bleeding profusely.

"Johnny!" Murdoch took hold of Johnny's arm and pulled up a chair, none too soon. The dark-haired man dropped into it with relief. Murdoch caught sight of the back of his son's long johns, soaked dark with blood.

"I was just tryin' to clean up a bit," Johnny explained before Murdoch had a chance to berate him. Johnny turned his eyes to meet his father's, then both pair of eyes dropped to look at his hands. They were stained with drying blood.

Murdoch inspected Johnny's back and compressed his lips when he saw that at least four stitches had been torn from the swollen flesh. "What the hell were you thinking of?"

Johnny made a vague gesture towards his gun sitting nearby on the marble-top dresser. "Teresa ran outta here and I was going to rescue her," he said, as if he was capable of such an action. "I think I busted something back there," he added guiltily.

Murdoch wrapped Johnny up in fresh bandages as best he could, padding the open wound. By the time he'd finished and tied up the makeshift dressing, Johnny was looking ill, his eyes half-closed as he took ragged breaths.

When Murdoch tried to get Johnny standing, he found he couldn't do it on his own. His back and hip had been bothering him ever since Garrett had arrived. "You stay still, boy, you understand?" He had refrained from telling Johnny about Scott's injury, concerned that if he did so his impetuous son would probably cause himself even more harm by making a foolhardy attempt to join his brother in the great room. "I'll only be a minute," Murdoch said when he got no reply. "You sit right there, Johnny."

Johnny clung to the arms of his chair. "Yessir." As Murdoch stepped to the door that led to the hallway, Johnny suddenly called out, "Wait! What about Teresa?"

Murdoch assured him, "She's fine," even though he had no idea what had become of her. He only hoped that she hadn't fallen afoul of Harlan Garrett.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Maria suggested they move Scott temporarily in with Johnny, and assured the Patrón that she would take care of everything. Cipriano took one of Scott's arms, slung it across his shoulder, ran a beefy arm around the blond man's waist and got him into Johnny's bedroom without breaking a sweat.

Alarmed at the sight of his injured brother, Johnny immediately started asking what had happened and reached for his gun, but Murdoch calmed him as best he could. "Son, Scott hasn't said much, only that Garrett hit him. It's a deep gash on his head, but I don't think he's in any danger from it."

Scott's eyes were half open and he made vague gestures of protest when his boots were pulled off, but once a blanket was pulled over him, he lay quietly, one hand to his head.

"He needs the doctor," Johnny insisted. He slowly stood up on his own and made a tentative step towards the bed, his gun still in hand.

"And so do you," Maria said, rushing over to help Murdoch guide him back to bed. Luckily, the mattress was large enough for the two brothers to lie on side-by-side, if only as a temporary solution. "You boys give so much work to poor Dr. Mendez. Maybe he will be tired and not come out here no more." She put an extra pillow behind Johnny's shoulder and fussed over him until he brushed her away.

Murdoch removed Johnny's gun from his grip and holstered it again, returning the rig to the table. "You're not strong enough to raise it even if you needed it and I don't want any bullets going astray by accident. I think it's safer out of your reach right now, Johnny. I know you don't agree, but we'll lock the doors and someone will stay with you."

"How can you say it's safe when Scott gets bushwhacked on our own property?" He looked worriedly at his brother, who hadn't moved since he'd been laid on the mattress. "You say Garrett did this? To Scott?" he asked skeptically. Johnny prodded his brother gently. "Scott?" he asked, eliciting a grunt but no real reply.

"It appears that Garrett has lost what little reason he had." Murdoch shook his head and signaled for Cipriano to leave with him. "We'll be back as soon as we find her," he whispered to Maria.

The housekeeper was worried about her little Teresa and frightened enough to retrieve Johnny's revolver for him when he asked for it. Once it was in his hand, he turned to interrogate his brother about what was really going on, but Scott had already passed out and was no help at all.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

It was Jelly who discovered Teresa. He had been having trouble with his lantern and set it down on the top of the wall that divided the patio from the yard in order to adjust the wick. When he glanced up he caught sight of the girl, only feet away. She was standing stock-still near the fountain, a stricken look on her face, and when he called out her name she didn't show any sign she heard him. Knowing that something was very wrong, he cautiously opened the gate and approached her slowly, much as he would a skittish animal.

She was trembling badly even though the night was no more than cool, so he removed his cloth coat and draped it over her shoulders. Her dress was soaked and dirty, and there was a graze on her pale cheek, but otherwise she appeared to be unharmed.

Jelly stepped forward with his lantern raised to get a clear look at what was she was staring at on the ground by the fountain. When he saw what it was, he immediately put his arm around her shaking body and turned her away. "We'll just git you inside, honey," he said soothingly.

Juan and Isidro hastened over when they saw that Jelly had found Teresa. The light from their lanterns caught the grisly scene, and both men made the sign of the cross. "Madre de Dios," they muttered in unison. "Qué se está encendiendo aquí?"

"The Devil's work," Jelly replied, and with a fearful look over his shoulder, he guided the girl to the safety of the house.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"I went to look at the man you caught, then I went back. . . for my. . . my bag," Teresa said, her voice so small that Murdoch had to lean close to catch her words. "By. . . the f…fountain." She burst into tears and threw herself into the mothering arms of Maria. The housekeeper sat her on the couch in the great room, soothed her in Spanish while she stroked her hair and just her held close. Luckily, neither of the boys had awakened when Murdoch had summoned her to care for the upset Teresa.

Murdoch ran a hand over his face. The events of the past few days were wearing him down, but nothing had affected him quite as much as the sight of Teresa's distress. "Jelly, show him to me," he said. "Let's get this over with."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

The pleasant-sounding trickle of the fountain belied the gruesome scene in the courtyard. Murdoch took one look at the dead body of Harlan Garrett and ordered the gathering crowd of ranch hands and their families to return to their beds. He didn't want Johnny and especially Scott to be alerted to Garrett's demise at that time. He deemed it was better that his two injured sons, resting only feet away in the ground-floor bedroom, remained oblivious to the death that had occurred so close.

The first thought that had entered Murdoch's head when he arrived on the scene was that Harlan Garrett had suffered some sort of apoplexy, but upon turning the body face up, the wound in the man's neck told a different story. There were more lanterns lit and Murdoch crouched down to take a closer look.

The only apparent damage was a still-oozing round hole in the right side of Garrett's neck. Whatever the weapon had been, it had penetrated the throat and probably an artery as far as Murdoch could determine.

Garrett had been found with his head and shoulders immersed in the fountain's basin, the water dark with his blood. Now that he was laid out on his back, a pool of bloody water drained from his body and sodden clothing. As the seepage encroached upon Murdoch, he edged back.

Isidro stood at Murdoch's side and looked at the sopping wet corpse with distaste. "Who shot him?"

Murdoch replied, "Nobody heard a shot fired. It looks like he was stabbed. There's no exit wound." He got to his feet, one hand going to his sore hip. The twinges from his old wound seemed to get worse in times of stress, and the past few days could not be considered relaxing. At least his sons were both safe and Teresa was finding comfort in Maria's capable arms. "Has the sheriff been summoned?"

"Sheriff Stillwater's been sent for," Jelly said, eyeballing the dead body with discomfort. "The doc, too." He took a blanket from one of the men and held it aloft until Murdoch nodded in agreement.

"Cover him up."

Isidro fished around in the fountain and retrieved Garrett's walking stick. "I think it is broken, Patrón," he said, gingerly handing the dripping cane to his boss.

Upon inspection of Garrett's stick, Murdoch found that the end was loose, and then he realized that the silver handle pulled out to reveal that the walking stick was not as innocuous looking as it looked. Pulling the handle out of its sheath, he exposed a two-foot long rapier. "It's a sword stick," he explained to his men.

"You think that pig-sticker's what killed him? It sure weren't no accident, was it? Less he fell on it or somethin' outlandish. I once heard of a man that shot hisself when he-."

One look from Murdoch and Jelly stopped his morbid tale. "I don't think so, Jelly," Murdoch said, "but this for the sheriff to investigate. Isidro, let's get someone to watch over Garrett until he arrives. Make sure nothing is touched." He wanted to move the body out of sight, but thought it would be better for the sheriff to view an undisturbed scene. "Let's-"

Scott's voice startled Murdoch, coming from directly behind him. "Murdoch? What's going on?" Apart from the bandage that was wrapped around his forehead, Scott appeared to be his normal self. "I heard talking and . ."

Acting quickly, Murdoch held his arms out, shepherding Scott back, but his son had already looked around his father's shoulder, sensing that something was seriously amiss. From the widening of his eyes, Murdoch could see Scott had caught sight of the blanket-draped body, half obscured in the shadows.

"Who is that?" he asked with a sharp intake of breath.

Scott struggled to push past him, but Murdoch warned, "Go back, Scott, and keep Johnny-" Even as he spoke, Johnny appeared on the bedroom door's threshold. He looked to be in pain as he sagged against the doorframe, but he took a tentative step towards the small group surrounding the body.

It only took a nod from Murdoch for Isidro to step over to Johnny and strong-arm him back towards the safety of the house. Johnny resisted and directed a few sharp words at the wrangler in Spanish.

Isidro's reaction was to stand in the young man's way, with hands at the ready, indicating he wasn't going to allow Johnny to pass, no matter what insults were thrown at him. He glanced over his shoulder at Murdoch, who was occupied with keeping Scott from viewing the body.

"Scott, don't do this," implored Murdoch, even as he knew there was no way he could keep his son from discovering the ugly truth. Scott was in no condition to be out here, and the emotional toll once he discovered that Garrett had been murdered was going to be devastating. Even though Murdoch tried to keep his apprehension from showing, Scott seemed to instinctively know what had occurred.

Seeking reassurance from the dread that crept into his stomach, Scott looked intently at his father, searching for the answer that he didn't want to hear.

Murdoch released his hold on his son's upper arms. "I'm sorry, son. It's Harlan." Even though he did not physically restrain Scott, Murdoch didn't move from where he stood with his feet firmly planted. He wished he could shield his older son from the grief that was sure to consume him. Even if Harlan Garrett had done more harm than good, and Scott had renounced any connection to the man, it was inevitable that he would feel a great loss from his grandfather's passing.

"My. . . my grandfather?"

When Johnny heard his father announce the identity of the man lying under the blanket, he stepped forward until he staggered up against Isidro. He knew that Garrett hadn't died a natural death just from the way Murdoch was standing, from the way his father was trying to protect Scott.

But suddenly Murdoch gave up his futile attempt to raise a protective wall around Scott and he stood aside to let the blond man stumble past.

Scott fell to his knees beside the shrouded figure and slowly reached out one hand to lift a corner of the blanket. At the sight of his grandfather's features, frozen in a chilling mask of death, Scott inhaled sharply. Harlan Garrett's eyes were slightly open, their exposed whites reflecting the lamplight. His mouth was agape, lips pulled back in their final grimace to show teeth, red with blood.

With a flick of his hand, Scott tossed the blanket back to expose Garrett down to his chest. Although there was no doubt that the man was dead, Scott slid a hand inside his grandfather's jacket until it settled over the place where his heart lay.

Johnny reached out a hand to his brother, even though he was yards away from him. He just wanted to pull Scott away from the dead body, but Isidro stood his ground, arms like steel barring Johnny from getting to his brother's side. There was no way he could fight this man, not as weak as he was, and the frustration ate at him. "Scott, he's gone, just gone. Come on back with me. Please," Johnny urged, his voice cracking. Scott didn't look up, but Johnny was sure he was listening.

Murdoch tried not to look at Garrett as he waited to help his Scott to his feet.

Johnny implored, "Isidro, déjeme pasar. Mi hermano me necesita," but the big man shook his gray head. "No, Johnny, usted estará lastimado."

Desperate to get to Scott's side, Johnny entreated, "Él es el quién está lastimada. He's the one who's hurting, can't you see? Déjeme pasar. Usted sabe que esto es incorrecto." 

But Isidro would not go against the orders of his boss, even if he felt compassion for the younger son. To him, the loss of the old grandfather was no loss at all, but to see the sons of the house so upset was hard on his heart. "No."

"Enough, Johnny," Murdoch called to him. "You have to get back inside. The sheriff should be here soon. Go and rest while you can." He put out a hand to help Scott to his feet when he started to rise, but the offer was ignored.

"But Murdoch-" Johnny finally gave in, but only because he was barely able to remain on his feet. By the time Isidro got him to the bedside, he was bearing all of Johnny's weight.

Scott stood alone over the body, his head bowed.

Murdoch was not surprised to see signs of tears glistening in Scott's eyes. He waited for some sign that his proud son wanted comfort from his old man, but there was none forthcoming. "Scott, come in now."

Scott bent to conceal Garrett's face with the blanket then stood erect. Gathering himself, he took a deep breath. "We need to move him."

"The sheriff will need to see him here, in the place where he died."

"Pardon me for saying so, Murdoch," came the caustic reply, "but Gabe is not exactly a Pinkerton detective. He won't be able to tell us anything we don't already know: that my grandfather has been killed with a sharp weapon. He won't be able to tell who did this any more than he found out the truth about who was behind Johnny's attack. I discovered the connection between my grandfather and those men, Flanagan and. . .what was his. . . Macon. They met somehow in Wyoming, where Grandfather stopped for a few days. I confronted him about it and that's what prompted him to hit me. Look, Gabe is great at rounding up rustlers, but he hasn't got a clue about how to handle something like this. So let's show some respect for the dead and move my. . . move his body inside."

The news that Scott had discovered that Harlan had premeditated murdering Johnny and had orchestrated the initial attack on him was not surprising to Murdoch. Trust the old bastard to have come visiting with a smile on his face and murder in his mind. Agreeing with his son that Gabe's skills were more suited to tracking rather than ferreting out facts, Murdoch yielded.

They arranged for Harlan Garrett's remains to be sheltered in the bath house, then Scott, drained and finally giving in to the dizziness that threatened to cause his own collapse, returned to the bedroom he was to share with Johnny.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"What time's it?" Scott whispered to Jelly.

Jelly leaned forward to see the clock, the squeak of the springs in his chair enough to make Scott raise both of his hands to his wounded head in pain. "Goin' on two," Jelly said in an undertone.

"You don't have to shout," Scott complained. The pain in his head was making miserable, but he wasn't going to apologize. He had never felt so drained in all his life.

"I'm jus' doin' what I've been told to, not that I expect no thanks."

Scott stared bleakly at Jelly. "Just go home, Jelly."

Jelly moved with exaggerated stealth to the door. "I'm a-goin' to get somethin' to eat. If you're asleep when I get back I won't come in, but I'll hunker down nearby. Just in case," he intoned.

Scott didn't ask, 'Just in case of what?' though he was tempted to. There wasn't anybody to guard against. Not any more. He had killed the two men who had held Johnny down while Harlan Garrett had brutally knifed him. He had even been about to throttle his own grandfather when the truth was exposed. It didn't bear thinking about; his grandfather, the man who had brought him up, who had intended the best for him, even if in a corrupted way, was now dead. But the family was safe. They were damaged, but safe. That's what was important now and he tried to keep it in mind, just so the image of Harlan lying, cold and bloody on the patio, stayed away from his thoughts. He thanked God that nobody else had been killed.

He lay beside his brother, aware of every breath he made, hearing each snore, gasp and groan as the cycle of sleep and painful awakenings occurred. He wondered what had set Harlan off, if it had been some long-simmering hatred of Johnny, or possibly he'd despised losing his tenuous control over his grandson, and the inheritance had been the trigger. Finally, the thoughts running around his brain tired themselves out and he slept.

When Scott awoke the next time, it was dawn. He slowly sat up, holding his aching head, running his tongue around his cottony mouth. He reached for a glass of water that had been left on the bedside table and felt the mattress sag as Johnny turned over behind him.

"Get me some water, will ya?" Johnny got up one elbow and took a proffered glass. "Is it too much to hope it was all a bad dream?"

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	17. Chapter 17

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 17 - THE PRISONER

"Get me some water, will ya?" Johnny got up one elbow to accept a proffered glass. "Is it too much to hope it was all a bad dream?"

"Bad dream?" asked Scott. "How I wish it was, brother."

"No such luck, huh?" Johnny peered at Scott's drawn face, seeing the fine lines around his mouth accentuate the turned-down corners. He was tempted to poke fun at the tufts of pale blond hair sprouting from the bandage that wrapped around his brother's forehead, had the reality of the events of the previous night had not been so razor-sharp.

Scott was shirtless and there was a bruise on his shoulder from hitting the floor when Garrett struck him down. Wearing only long johns, Scott looked lean to the point of being bony, and Johnny wondered if his brother had eaten anything since the day his grandfather had arrived. He'd only seen him pick at his food the couple of times they'd had a meal together in the past several days.

Scott ran his hands over his face and sighed deeply. "God, I'm tired," he said.

Johnny sat up, grunting loudly when the action pulled at his back injury. "I'm sorry about your grandfather, Scott," he began, but Scott raised a hand to halt any more being said on the subject.

"I don't want to hear-"

Whatever Scott was about to say was interrupted when Murdoch peered in. "You're up," he said in surprise. His look of concern deepened when he stepped in and had a good look at his two sons sitting next to each other on the bed. "Johnny, you're bleeding again."

Even as Johnny reached his hand back to feel the bandage, Scott took over, pushing his brother's hand away to examine his back. "It's not bad." He added, "You'll live," but regretted the choice of words when he thought about how his grandfather had not lived. "Just lie down and try not to damage anything."

"It's not like I did it on purpose," Johnny retorted.

"Didn't do what?" Scott looked at him with narrowed eyes. He slowly pushed off the mattress and stood by the bedside to face his brother.

"I didn't go looking for trouble. I didn't plan on walking into the trap that your old granddaddy set for me, not on purpose." Johnny's voice rose with his temper. "That cabrón was gonna-"

"Johnny!" warned Murdoch. "Don't say something you'll regret."

"No, no, I want to hear what my brother has to say," Scott said defensively. "Go ahead, Johnny." He crossed his arms and waited.

Studiously avoiding his father's stern look, Johnny adjusted his position on the bed and said, "Fine. Right from the start I didn't jump to no conclusions about who knifed me. I didn't come out pointing my finger at nobody, and even when Garrett stuffed a pillow in my face and told me how much he was gonna enjoy killin' me, I didn't go lookin' for revenge when his plans didn't work out." He paused, but Scott showed no sign he was about to concede. "You know I why I didn't tell you he was the one who'd tried to kill me?"

Scott suggested tartly, "Because you wanted to deal with it yourself? Maybe you went out there last night and repaid his malice by knifing him."

Johnny's face fell, and it took him a few seconds to recover his disappointment. "If I thought you really meant that. . . ," he said softly. "I didn't accuse him because he means nothing to me and you mean everything."

Scott hung his head, and then by way of apology said, "Hell, Johnny, I know you didn't kill him."

"Oh yeah, what makes you so sure?"

With a short laugh, Scott replied, "Well, apart from the fact you couldn't have even made it a few feet across the patio without me to lean on, you'd never use a knife, not when you have your six-gun."

Johnny glanced over at Murdoch, who stood by the door with his arms crossed, keeping his thoughts to himself. With head on one side, Johnny let a hint of a smile slip out when he looked back at his brother. "So you think I need you to lean on, do you?"

"I think you'd fall over in a second, without me to help you up." Scott nodded, but the motion made his head swim and his hand went impulsively to the place he'd been hit.

Johnny reached over the bed to grasp Scott's arm. "You sit back down on the bed. If you hit the floor I ain't gonna be able to help you up." He was rewarded with a smile from his brother, who took his advice without demurring.

At that moment, Cipriano stuck his head in the room. "Sorry, Boss, but Sheriff Gabe just rode up and Dr. Mendez is here. He wants to know who is the worst injured." With a caustic look he added, "Oh, and the hombre in the guardhouse, he's awake and says he wants out."

Murdoch promptly ordered, "Johnny first. Then Scott."

Scott looked sharply at his father. "Who's in the guardhouse?"

"Rinaldo," Murdoch explained curtly, then said to Cipriano, "He can wait until I'm good and ready to send the doctor over."

"Rinaldo?" asked Scott. "You've got Martin locked up? What the hell did he do?"

Murdoch raised his eyebrows at the familiar use of the man's first name. "Martin?"

"Wait a minute," Johnny chimed in, "Isn't he the guy who rode in the posse with you? What did he do?"

"Let him out," commanded Scott. He rose from the bed, intent on heading out to the guardhouse to release the man himself.

"Now hold on, son. Mr. Rinaldo was skulking about last night with a very large knife in his hand, one that could very well be the one that was used on your brother. We couldn't just-"

"Why does he need a doctor?" Scott demanded of his father.

"He was hurt by the ranch hands that captured him." Murdoch said absently, then added, "Why should we let him out? He might have been the one who killed Garrett."

Scott looked dumbfounded, then said with conviction, "No, he's not the one. Release him."

"You'll have to tell me why," Murdoch said tersely, his chin raising at his son's defensive attitude.

Johnny joined in the protest. "He wasn't the one that knifed me, Murdoch."

"Just take my word for it. You have no business keeping him locked up," Scott insisted. He looked around and spotted his clothing hanging over the back of a chair. He quickly pulled on his pants, then struggled with his boots.

Although the doctor appeared in the doorway, Murdoch didn't seem to realize he was standing there. "I'm afraid I can't just take your word for it, son," he said.

Scott stood to face his father, eye-to-eye, rigid with suppressed anger. "What, my word isn't good enough?"

"Scott," Johnny cautioned, but his brother ignored him.

Murdoch didn't back down. "I'm not about to release the man who was on my property, carrying a dangerous weapon, without a damned good reason."

Scott hesitated and then took a deep breath. "You bring Rinaldo to the great room and I'll explain there," he bargained.

For a minute, it appeared that Murdoch was not to going to budge, but he relented. "Fine." He turned, only to find Dr. Mendez ready to enter. "Doctor," he acknowledged brusquely. "Johnny first."

Dr. Mendez peered at Scott's bandage-wrapped head and then at Johnny, whose hand was clutching at his back in pain. He asked smoothly, "How would it be if you just paid me a retainer, Mr. Lancer? Then I could bring my wife over and I could set up my shingle in one of the little houses down by the river. That way, I wouldn't have to wear out so many horses with all this back and forth."

Johnny chuckled, but his mirth was dampened when he saw the needle and thread the doctor unpacked from his medical bag.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Martin Rinaldo sat stiffly in an upright chair in front of Murdoch's oversized desk. Scott occupied in its twin a couple of feet away, looking at the man for guidance. "May I have your permission?" he asked Rinaldo.

Their neighbor unconsciously touched his swollen and discolored nose as he weighed up Murdoch, but then he turned his gaze on Scott and relaxed a little. "Yes, but on the condition we keep everything that is said within these walls."

Scott looked from his father to the sheriff, who was out on the patio talking to Jelly and two other Lancer men.

Murdoch barely glanced out at Gabe Stillwater. "He won't mind waiting a few minutes." Turning his attention fully to the two men seated before him, and anxious to find out what was going on, Murdoch waved a hand to indicate his agreement.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Johnny was in one of his least favorite positions: face down with a doctor poking sharp tools in his back. He bit the pillowcase and clenched his eyes shut, but a groan or two escaped unbidden. At one point, when he opened his eyes a sliver, he saw Teresa through his tears of pain. After that, he made no more noise while the doctor was working on him, but when it was over he let out a moan of relief.

Teresa's small hand went under his belly, guiding wide strips of bandage under his torso. He could sense that Maria was there, too, helping her work on fixing him up. Eventually, he was wrapped up and, exhausted, he almost fell asleep. He guessed that was due to the medicine he had been plied with, against his will, before Dr. Mendez had begun.

It wasn't that Johnny wanted to suffer any pain, but any time he was coerced into taking laudanum, a terrible gnawing grew in the pit of his stomach. He knew it was due to his loathing of being rendered helpless, even if it was only for a short while. He'd do almost anything to avoid forced oblivion, even endure agony in its stead.

But then he remembered where he was and that his family and the steadfast Lancer ranch hands were close, and that he had nothing to fear. If he was unconscious, he knew that they would guard him with a fierce loyalty. Now that Harlan Garrett was gone, he couldn't think of anyone in particular who would be around to cause him harm, even if Garrett's killer was still at large.

For the few minutes before he fell into nothingness, Johnny wondered who had done the old goat in. He couldn't pin it on any one person, but he hoped that when they discovered who had murdered Garrett, he'd get the chance to shake the brave man's hand.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Scott explained, "I didn't recognize Martin when I first met him in town, back when he'd just moved into the old Grant place, a few months back."

"I had to remind Scott that we had previously met," Rinaldo added. "Back in '64."

With a sideways glance at the older man seated next to him, Scott leaned forward to explain to his father about their encounter. "Rinaldo was recruiting for a special unit. I was stationed near Washington, before my unit moved south, when he put my name forward as a candidate for. . . well, it doesn't matter now, but we crossed paths."

Murdoch asked, "This was before Vicksburg?"

For a moment Scott was lost in thought, but then he looked up at his father and nodded pensively.

"I asked Scott not to reveal that I was with the Secret Service," Rinaldo said. "I'm retired now, but it's best not to talk about it. I'm sure you can understand my position."

"This still doesn't explain what you were doing last night," Murdoch pointed out gruffly, "heading for this house with that weapon in your hand." He gestured towards the knife in question, which sat on his desk, looking deadly even in repose. Its blade of blue steel and toothed edge had been designed for hunting, not for cutting into human flesh, and its presence on his desktop made Murdoch feel vaguely ill.

Scott exchanged a glance with Rinaldo and said, "That's my fault. I asked him if he could look around a bit and see if he could find out who had knifed Johnny." Murdoch looked annoyed, and Scott wasn't entirely surprised. He knew he should have confided in his father, and together they could have joined forces against Garrett.

There was a long silence, during which the sound of Jelly back-talking to the sheriff outside came from the verandah. Although his exact words weren't discernable, the three men inside the house could tell that the ranch hand was defending someone vociferously.

Rinaldo broke the silence with a cough. "I talked with Mr. Garrett last night, just to feel him out, but didn't learn much. He told me a little about his trip out here. We talked about Boston and New York. Nothing worth repeating. Just before I talked to him I had a look around the barn. I thought that the owner of the knife might be reluctant to just toss it away. I had a good look around the barn and just happened to find that knife hidden under some hay in an old feed trough, but I was interrupted by your man-. " He pointed towards Jelly, who could be seen through the glass of the patio doors.

"Jelly Hoskins," Scott offered.

"Yes, he came in at that point. I left the weapon in the tack room, then came back later at night when I thought the coast was clear, intending to approach Scott with it, to see what course he wanted me to take. Unfortunately, I had the knife in my hand and it was visible when I walked to the house. It was entirely my own fault for being so careless. I had no idea that your ranch hands would be so zealous. The discovery of the weapon was entirely by chance and nothing to tie it to Mr. Garrett, although I could research its origin."

Murdoch leaned his elbows on his desktop and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, as he digested all of the information put before him by this stranger. He sat back in his chair and asked, "Why would you investigate Garrett? What led you to think he'd been the man behind the attempt to kill Johnny?"

Rinaldo replied, "Scott told me about Garrett's animosity towards Johnny, but I had no factual evidence that he'd done anything. I didn't investigate only Mr. Garrett. I went out to the Gunderson's farm as well. Nobody is above suspicion."

Murdoch slapped a hand down on his desk, rattling the silver letter tray. "The Gundersons are fine, hard-working folk, and certainly not about to come all the way over to Lancer just to murder an older man they didn't even know!"

Scott wondered what Rinaldo was thinking of, casting such a wide net of accusation. He sat sideways in his chair, and took in his earnest expression.

Martin Rinaldo, late of the Secret Service, forestalled any questioning by Scott by answering the question foremost in the Lancer men's minds. "It would take a fool not to see that Mrs. Gunderson was harmed in a most vile way by the men our posse chased down. Scott, do you know if her husband was aware she was violated?"

Uncomfortable being the one to say anything that might hurt the Gundersons, Scott hesitated, "I think…I can't be sure, but I believe he did know they harmed his wife. He was shot when he discovered them in his house, just as they were about to leave. I believe she told him. I overheard them quarreling a little when I was last there, about the fact he wanted to go out despite his wounded arm, but I still don't believe he was the one who killed my grandfather."

"But he couldn't know that we were suspicious of Garrett over the attempts on Johnny's life," said Murdoch dismissively.

"There was something he said to me," Scott replied, "that showed he'd heard that my grandfather had attacked Johnny." Gunderson had said, _"Your brother, he was attacked with a knife. By your mother's father's own hand? This is true?"_

Murdoch waved away the thought of Gunderson coming to Lancer and killing Harlan away as being ridiculous. "Based on some neighbor's gossip? That's not enough to push a man to murder."

Rinaldo raised one eyebrow. "He could have killed Garrett, Mr. Lancer. He had plenty of sharp tools on hand when I was there."

Scott asked, "You mean his leather-working tools? Come on. Even if he wanted to, Gunderson was too badly hurt to ride over here, Martin."

The man looked Scott in the eye. "But his wife wasn't."

Together both Scott and Murdoch voiced their dislike of such an idea. "This is preposterous," expostulated Murdoch, standing up behind his desk.

Scott objected, "No, I know her, she'd never! Not a woman like that! Next thing you'll be accusing Maria of stabbing my grandfather with a kitchen knife! Or Johnny, who can barely get out of his bed unassisted."

Murdoch added, with his voice raised, "We all know he should be at the top of your list, sir. What about my son here, Scott? He'd just been hit over the head by his own kin. Isn't that enough to make you look at him as a suspect? Or me? I'll be happy to be on your list! You won't find me grieving over the grave of Harlan Garrett, that's for sure."

Rinaldo, who didn't seem put out in the least by Murdoch Lancer's ranting, shrugged. "As I said, nobody is above suspicion, Mr. Lancer."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Sheriff Gabe Stillwater entered the great room as Murdoch ushered Rinaldo out. Scott walked with their neighbor to his horse, thanking him for his help, even if he didn't think that he was on the right track.

"Look, Martin, I appreciate everything you did, and I'm sorry about your-" Scott pointed to the discolored nose of his old acquaintance. "And you know my father isn't really angry with you."

"No apology, please, Scott. Perhaps I've been out of the Service too long, if a gang of wranglers can take me down that easily," Rinaldo replied with a self-effacing smile. "I think I need to hone my skills a little. I'm sorry I wasn't more help, and that I wasn't able to prevent the untimely death of your grandfather. You have my sincere condolences, and if there is anything I can do. . . "

Just the kind words were enough for Scott's throat to constrict. He couldn't help having feelings of remorse over his grandfather's death, but he regained his composure and nodded his thanks. "You may be called upon to help the sheriff out sometime. He's overworked, you can see-"

Rinaldo gave a small bob of his head, almost a bow, in reply. "If my services are needed, you know where to find me," he said.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Murdoch accompanied the sheriff to the scene of Harlan Garrett's death, and Scott joined them. Reluctant as he was to see it, even in broad daylight, he knew it had to be done. The water running through the fountain all night had cleansed its basin, but there was still a considerable bloodstain on the flagstones of the patio. The sheriff poked around the vicinity before he asked to see the body. At that point Scott hung back, unable to view the remains. Murdoch didn't glance back, but Scott knew his father was aware he'd dropped behind.

Not really looking for anything in particular, Scott had a cursory look at the place of his grandfather's death. His head was aching and he needed a drink badly. He decided not to wait around for Gabe and Murdoch to return, but as he turned to make for the kitchen, something shimmering in the water of the fountain caught his eye. Carefully leaning over, he dipped his hand in the cool water and retrieved the object he'd spotted. Turning the dripping item over in his hand, he stood deep in thought for several minutes. Scott finally came to a decision and walked quickly to the house.

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	18. Chapter 18

I am about to post the last three chapters. First, thank you, everyone who left a comment as a guest. I'm afraid I can't respond directly to you, but I appreciate your comments. Fanfiction gives authors the power to delete any unwanted guest comments, and although I usually let all guest comments appear, occasionally one is so annoying or incomprehensible it gets deleted.

As most readers know, I've been pulling some of my favorite fics out of my archive and posting them bit by bit. I wrote this story a long time ago, somewhere between 2002 and 2011, when I was still into the Lancer fandom. A few years ago, I reviewed some of my stories and dusted them off, but I haven't read them for ages. I can't even remember who did the murder in this story! Enjoy...

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CHAPTER 18 - TEARS

It was past midday when Johnny awoke, and he was not feeling at all good. His mouth was dry, his tongue was swollen and his eyes had a heap of grit in them. The recent surgery on his back was causing more pain than the initial cut, if that was possible. A bleary-eyed, clumsy attempt to reach for some water ended with the glass being knocked to the floor. Between the crash of the splintering glass and his subsequent swearing, it was no wonder that Teresa came rushing in looking very concerned.

"Johnny, your language! This isn't a saloon," Teresa admonished as she picked up the shards of glass.

Johnny fell back on his pillows and refrained from saying something that would really curl the girl's hair. He said sourly, "You musta had a better night than me."

"No, I didn't, not at all, but I'm trying to keep busy so I don't have to think about it. Did you get any sleep?"

"Yeah," he said in defeat. "I just can't sleep without that damned medicine but when I take it, I have bad dreams." He rubbed his face and stretched his arms. When he looked up, Teresa was holding out a tin cup.

She asked tolerantly, "You wanted water?"

He managed a smile of thanks, but as she started to move away he caught her hand. "Don't go."

"I wasn't going anywhere." She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled fondly back at him while he drank his fill. She brushed a lock of dark hair off his forehead. "Your poor face, it's all blue and green."

Johnny frowned at the thought of his discolored face. He inspected his right hand and forearm. They, too, were changing from purple to shades of green, and was as sore as his ribs and other bruised parts, but he could tell all his injuries were improving. He even felt a bit stronger than he had the day before. Within his long and often risk-filled life, things had always improved after a while, though sometimes more slowly or agonizingly than at other times. But in the end he always recovered and wasn't yet crippled with arthritis or maimed like some he'd known. "At least my fingers didn't drop off or nothin'," he said with a crooked smile. "It could have been me lying out there in a pool of blood."

"Johnny! Don't even joke about something like that!" Her smile faltered, then her face crumpled as she burst into tears.

Johnny sat up and awkwardly gathered Teresa into his arms. She sobbed into his bare shoulder, but her weight against him was too much so he laid back, Teresa still encircled in his arms. "It's all right," he soothed. Unsure of what he could say to stop her crying, he stroked her arm and just waited out the storm.

She cried and sobbed until she gulped air, eventually wearing herself out. When the tempest had passed, she realized that she was lying against Johnny's bare chest and sat up quickly. Sniffling, she groped around for a handkerchief but was unable to locate one.

Johnny reached past her and whisked a small towel from the top of the bedside table. "Here, courtesy of the hotel," he offered. He watched her dab at her eyes, but even when they were dry, Teresa didn't look up. He tried to catch her gaze, but in the end he had to raise her chin with a finger. "Hey, what's goin' on in there? This isn't because that old man got himself killed, is it? Because there isn't anyone on this ranch who isn't glad of it. Except maybe Scott, and he'll get over-"

She shook her head and covered her face with the damp towel.

"Hey, hey, don't hide that pretty face," Johnny cajoled. He pulled the cloth away and peered at her. "C'mon, you can tell Johnny, can't you?"

"Nuh. . .no."

"Sure you can. It'll be just between you an' me," he promised.

Teresa wiped a stray tear away with the back of her hand. "It was…awful," she started.

Johnny ran a hand down her arm in sympathy. "Killin' ain't never pretty."

She swallowed, then said, in a voice so quiet he could hardly make out the words, "I heard the sheriff say the Gundersons might have killed him. . . but that's not true, Johnny, it's not."

"Of course not," he said with a snort. "That's ridiculous. Why would Gabe say that? Nobody's gonna get hanged for something they didn't do around here."

"I think Mr. Rinaldo put it in their minds, but they let him go because they don't think he did it. Now they're looking for someone else to lay the blame on."

Johnny asked, "Gabe and Murdoch? Or is Scott at the head of this posse, too? Heck, they might as well pin it on me, if they're looking for a suspect. I'll be happy to take the credit. Why, someone might even give me a medal. Or put on a parade in my honor. Yup, I'll just have to confess to the crime." He suddenly he felt considerably better, and surprised even himself when he laughed aloud.

"Oh no, Johnny, you can't do that! I won't let you." She got off the bed in a hurry but stood there in misery, wringing the cloth of her skirt with her hands.

Her face was damp with fresh tears. Johnny wanted to reach over and brush them off, but he just said, "I think we both know what we have to do."

She looked towards the door and came to a decision. "I'll tell Murdoch and the sheriff, I'll explain that it couldn't have been you. You didn't kill him," she insisted.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Scott stopped in the kitchen long enough to get some lemonade out of the cool sink and drink his fill. He removed the bandage around his forehead, tossed it in the washing pail and took a cursory look at his wound in the hall mirror. He saw nothing that wouldn't heal if left alone. Dr. Mendez had wanted to suture the gash, but Scott wasn't in favor of getting stitches. Any scarring was going to be hidden by his hair, and it had almost stopped bleeding by the time the doc had inspected it. He still had the remnants of a bad headache, but it wasn't enough to slow him down.

About to continue down the hallway to Johnny's bedroom, Scott halted in mid-stride. He returned to the mirror and opened the drawer of the ancient carved table that stood below it. From his pocket he took the object he'd found in the pool of the fountain, and looked at it for a few seconds before he shoved it in the drawer.

When he entered the bedroom Scott was caught up short by the sight of Teresa in his brother's arms, sobbing. Johnny, his arms wrapped around the girl's waist, saw Scott over her shoulder. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged a little.

"Teresa, honey, what's going on here?" Scott asked.

Teresa left the sanctuary of Johnny's arms, throwing herself at Scott. "I'm sorry, Scott, so…so…sorry," she cried, her words muffled by his jacket.

He took her firmly by the arms and sat her down on a chair. Kneeling next to her, he peered into her tear-streaked face.

From his bed, Johnny explained, "She's been upset since she came in. I thought she got over it but then the waterworks started again."

"Look, Teresa. Look at me," Scott ordered. "Just take a deep breath, that's right. I know it was a horrible thing for you to be the one to find my grandfather out there, but. . ." He wasn't sure how to proceed, but at least she had stopped sobbing. "He's gone now and. . ." What could he say? That Harlan Garrett would no longer be a thorn in his side and he felt relief and that, in turn, caused him immense guilt? That he was so tired he was at the point that he didn't care who had killed - no, murdered - his grandfather. After all the pain the old man had caused, not only to the Lancers, but to people back in Boston over many years, would some people secretly rejoice at his death? No doubt.

"I don't want to go to Hell," Teresa wailed.

"You're not going to hell," Scott replied with certainty. "Not like some I know."

That didn't appease Teresa. "I'll end up there and so will he."

Johnny barely suppressed a chuckle. "Believe me, Teresa, Harlan Garrett has had a special place set aside for him and you'll be nowhere near him." One look at Scott told him their obvious loathing of his late grandfather hadn't unduly upset him. Johnny pulled back the covers to sit on the edge of the bed, moving slowly. He winced with a hand bracing his bandaged back.

Scott opened his mouth to suggest Johnny shouldn't be getting out of bed, but one warning glance from his brother stopped him before he uttered a word. Sighing, the blond man moved a chair closer to the bed. "Look, I need to say a few things, and now's as good a time as any." A glance up at the two people who meant a great deal to him showed they were watching him attentively. He wasn't sure where to start, but after a pause the words just came spilling out. "I want you to know that I haven't acted as I should have over the past few days. Back when you had words with my grandfather, Johnny, I should have followed you into Morro Coyo and just enjoyed a game of poker with you." Johnny protested, but Scott halted him with a motion of his hand.

"I look at past actions," he continued, "and know I should have done something different, even if I'm well aware it's fruitless to beat myself up over should-haves. But I can apologize to you, Johnny, for not stepping in earlier to send my grandfather back to Boston. It was because I didn't take immediate steps that his dangerous behavior went from bad to worse, and I regret that because of my inaction you were badly hurt."

"Scott, you don't have anything to-" Johnny started.

"Just hear me out, please." Scott leaned his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair. With a big breath, he straightened then gave a fleeting smile to Teresa, who was listening raptly to his every word. He took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

She wiped away the remnants of tears from her brown eyes, and managed to produce a small smile in return.

"I felt compelled," Scott said, "to hunt down those men when I rode out with the posse. I hungered for revenge, something I'd never felt before, not like that. I suppose it was my way of compensating for letting you down, Johnny. I was doing it to ease my own guilt."

"C'mon, Scott, are you telling me you could have prevented Garrett from tryin' to stick that knife in me?" Johnny gave a wave of dismissal. "He was a man on a mission, had hate and killin' on his mind. Even if you'd tossed him off our land, he'd have come sneakin' back or tried some other way. You're not accountable for his actions any more than you are for mine, brother."

"Maybe, but if you'd told me the truth about him trying to smother you, if we'd stuck together, maybe we could have forced him away, for once and for all."

"Maybe if you'd confronted him you'd have got yourself stuck with the sharp end of his cane," Johnny retorted. He pointed to Scott's head wound, visible along the hairline. "He turned on you anyway, didn't he? Hitting you over the head ain't gonna win him no wings."

Teresa pointed out, "You two are saying 'maybe' an awful lot. Nobody knows what they might do in any given situation, especially when they're under pressure. You can't go around second-guessing everything you've ever done. That's enough to drive a person crazy."

"All right, we won't do it any more, agreed?" suggested Scott. "No more hiding what we're doing from each other." He looked at his signet ring with a smile. "We'll stick together like the fortress. We combine our strength and nobody can harm us."

Johnny nodded his agreement. "About time. Grab me that shirt, Teresa, and find me some pants. How about you two give me a hand and get me into the living room so we can find out what the sheriff and Murdoch are talking about? See if we can settle all these rumors about innocent folks gettin' accused of killing Garrett."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Sheriff Gabe Stillwater had a great deal of respect for Murdoch Lancer, and even more for the power the man wielded as one of the foremost leaders of the community.

Together they'd viewed the body of the deceased. After a cursory inspection, they agreed that the man had been killed by a weapon with a round, narrow circumference. It would be up to Dr. Mendez to do an autopsy to confirm the official cause of death. He'd hoped that it had been an accident, mostly because he did not want to have to arrest anyone on the Lancer ranch for murder. He had a deep abiding respect for the law, but at times, and this was one of those times, some leniency was allowable. If he were able to conclude the killing was in self-defense, he would be more than happy.

Accepting a beer and a sandwich from Murdoch, Gabe sat on one of the great room couches and relaxed for the first time in several days. From their conversation, he had the distinct impression that Murdoch didn't even care if they discovered who had killed Garrett. "Look, Murdoch, I can see how you're relieved that this Mr. Garrett is outta your hair, and I can't say I blame you, considering what he did to your Johnny, and to Scott, too. But we still have to act civilized and make some serious attempt at figgering out who did this. It wouldn't look too good otherwise."

Murdoch ate the last bite of his sandwich, dusted crumbs off his lap, and took a swallow of his beer. "You know, Gabe," he said, holding the amber brew up for inspection, "when a man gets on in years, he should mellow, like this beer. It isn't easy to let go, though. With my sons being hurt and all these goings-on, I haven't attended to the running of this ranch as well as I should have. So why don't you spend your time looking for the person who put old Harlan Garrett out of his self-induced misery, and I'll spend mine taking care of my family?" He sipped the beer and added, "I brewed this myself. Tastes pretty good, and if I can say so, it rivals some back-East brands I've sampled." He peered at the confounded sheriff. "Sheriff, you should take up brewing beer or something. Time for us older men to mellow, don't you think?"

Gabe managed a thin smile. "I'll leave that to you. I gotta get back to town soon or else the place'll be overrun with drunks and petty thieves. I been away too long." He motioned towards the glass doors on the far side of the room. "Looks like the doc has finished the autopsy." He went over and opened the door to allow the physician to enter. "C'mon in, Doc."

Dr. Mendez greeted the men but refused a seat. "I can't stay. Just got word of an emergency."

Murdoch quickly stood and asked, "What about your conclusions?"

"I'll write up a full report later, Mr. Lancer. Tell Scott he can arrange to have the body embalmed in Green River. They'll get everything ready for shipping the remains back to Boston, as he asked."

"Did you determine the cause of death? I'll need it for my forms," said the sheriff tiredly.

Dr. Mendez said, "Short version is that Mr. Garrett had more than one hole in him." At the astonished looks of Lancer and the sheriff, he demonstrated by pointing to his own neck. "One here went through the throat."

"So that's what killed him," Murdoch said with certainty.

"Not exactly. There's a second puncture wound about here on the victim." The doctor placed his fingers on a point just below his ribs. "The angle suggests an upwards thrust. Went under the ribs and pierced the heart."

Sheriff Stillwater was astounded. "So the killer stabbed Mr. Garrett twice!"

"Er, no." Mendez appeared discomfited. "It was a different weapon, I'd say, and was thrust from the left direction. The wound in the neck was inflicted from the right."

Murdoch and Gabe exchanged looks. Murdoch suggested, "Could have been one of the stabs was from behind."

The doctor pulled out his watch and held it to his ear. "Maybe, but there's more to this than meets the eye. What's the time, gentlemen? My watch seems to have stopped. I must have forgotten to wind it." Looking up to see Murdoch and the sheriff waiting impatiently for him to report the rest of his findings, Mendez coughed and said, "Mr. Garrett's life did not end because of blood loss, or not entirely. Even if he'd survived the wounds, which is unlikely, my professional conclusion is that he would have died a very nasty death within the hour anyway."

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	19. Chapter 19

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 19 - HOME COOKING

Scott slung Johnny's arm over his shoulder and Teresa grabbed the wounded man's newly donned pants' waistband, and between them they got him safely into the great room. Once they had deposited him on one of the couches and had taken seats on either side of him, they looked up expectantly at the two men already in attendance.

Murdoch was leaning against the fireplace, his face set in a stern expression. The sheriff was hovering, looking worried, watching Dr. Mendez leave. As soon as the doctor was out the door, Gabe poured himself a shot of rye, and with only a cursory glance at the new arrivals, he sat down heavily in an armchair.

"What's going on?" Scott asked guardedly.

Murdoch took a deep breath and left his post against the mantle. Dropping unceremoniously into the remaining armchair, he said, "Damned if I know." Only then did he acknowledge Johnny's presence. "What's this?' he asked his younger son. "I thought you couldn't walk."

"Only made it because of these two helping me along," Johnny said with a smile.

"You seem mighty bright all of a sudden." Murdoch wasn't sure why, but it was irritating him that his three children were seated closely on the couch, rubbing shoulders and looking as if they had banded together to keep something from him.

Teresa showed signs she had been crying, but still, she looked in better spirits than the last time he'd seen her. Johnny was pallid in comparison to the purple bruises on his neck and eye. He seemed alert, though, and his spirit had returned. Scott simply looked cool and unnaturally collected. And they all appeared to be somewhat. . . determined, Murdoch thought. He asked suspiciously, "What are you three up to?"

The Lancer boys and Teresa exchanged glances without saying anything, then Scott acted as spokesman. "We're here to find out what the sheriff has concluded, if anything. Also to make sure that the Gundersons, as well as others, don't get accused of any crimes without some merit."

It was Gabe and Murdoch's turn to look at each other. Gabe sat forward and said, "All right, let me ask you a few questions then, since we have you all together. Maybe we can get to the bottom of this whole mess. Miss Teresa, now I don't want to upset you or anything, but you're the one that discovered the body of Mr. Garrett, and there are some things here that just don't add up. You understand we need to find out the facts."

She nodded. Johnny took her hand for courage.

"You left Johnny's room, crossed the patio and stumbled on the body?"

"Not exactly," she said quietly. "I did leave Johnny, but I went out to the front of the house to see what was going on. One of the hands told me they'd captured someone, well, who turned out to be Mr. Rinaldo. I went to. . . to look at him."

Murdoch, displeased, asked, "You went to the guardhouse?" Even if Rinaldo had turned out to be friend rather than foe, women were forbidden to go near the old guardhouse, for their own safety.

"I didn't go more than a few steps in that direction when I thought better of it, and that's when I remembered I'd left my bag of knitting in the patio, by the-" She stopped and Scott nodded to her in encouragement. Murdoch gave her a smile as well, so she continued. "It was by the fountain. I sit on the edge sometimes. . . " She thought to herself that she'd never sit there again as long as she lived. "He was hiding in the bushes." She shuddered.

Johnny asked with annoyance, "Sheriff, do you have to dredge all this up again? Didn't she already tell you what happened? Now look what you done, you got her cryin' again."

At the sight of the tears welling up in the girl's eyes, Gabe stuck a finger in his collar and tugged at it. He turned to an easier target. "Well, what about you, Johnny? Did you follow her out there?"

"Nope," Johnny replied. The sheriff looked at him as if expecting him to say more, but Johnny just crossed his arms and smiled civilly.

Murdoch asked, "Son, you didn't step out onto the patio? Maybe you saw someone out there?"

"You mean like the person who killed old Harlan? C'mon, you know I couldn't make it five feet from my bed, Murdoch." As if to emphasize being unfit, Johnny shifted, winced, then pressed one arm to his belly.

Scott gave him a skeptical look, which Murdoch caught. He weighed his sons up for a moment, then told Gabe, "I found Johnny in his room, bleeding. His back wound had re-opened and he was trying to clean himself up."

"You didn't bust that open by an encounter with the victim, by any chance?" the sheriff asked with authority.

"Sheriff!" Scott started to stand in protest, but Johnny grasped his arm and tugged him back down to his seat.

"It's all right, Scott," Johnny said to his brother. "He's tryin' a hit or miss line of questioning." He then turned to the sheriff. "And anyway, what if I did go out there? And I'm not sayin' I did, but what if I had gone out to the patio? And maybe, just maybe I found our Teresa being attacked by Garrett out there in the dark with nobody to protect her."

Murdoch warned, "Johnny-"

Johnny ignored his father. "You know, sheriff, maybe Garrett was on his way to murder me, because we all know he tried twice already." Johnny looked at Scott. "We've figger'd that much out, huh?"

Scott slowly nodded. "Yes, he knifed you in Morro Coyo, then tried to suffocate you in your own bed." He spoke as plainly as a courtroom lawyer, even though his stomach was churning with anxiety. He could see where this was going, but he wondered what Johnny was getting himself into.

"So Teresa here was scared out of her wits, let's just pretend." Johnny gave her a confident smile. "She had no weapons on her, only her bag of knitting that she found in the dark. Isn't that right, honey?" He waited for her nod, seeing the fear in her eyes - not fear for herself but for him. "Trust me," he whispered. Then loudly, "Garrett rushed her and she grabbed one of them knitting needles, jabbed at him. She only meant to fend him off, let's say. He was hurt but he knocked her down."

Everyone was listening to him raptly so Johnny continued, carefully choosing his words. "Maybe I ran over to . . . get her out of harm's way, back inside. But when she was gone, and I turned back, Garrett pulled the needle outta his neck and somehow he'd got to his feet. He was staggerin' around, bleedin' like a stuck pig and then he pulled a long blade outta his stick-."

"His cane," corrected Scott flatly. "It's a cane-sword with a concealed blade. He's carried them before, but this one must have been new."

"I wondered what he was doin' wandering around with something so lethal. Considerin' his history, and all," Johnny said flippantly to his brother. "Didn't you check him for weapons?"

"I searched his belongings, but I had no idea it was anything more than just a cane," Scott said by way of apology.

"That a fact?" Johnny shrugged it off and turned back to the sheriff. "Well, we struggled and somehow this long blade, uh, got stuck in him and he fell in the fountain." Johnny looked down at his hands, picturing the blood that had been on them. He felt totally drained, but he knew he'd done the right thing. Raising his head, he looked uneasily at his father. Any worry he'd had that the old man would condemn him disappeared the moment their eyes met.

Murdoch was angry and concerned by what he'd just heard, but he didn't fault Johnny for his actions. "How is it I'm the last to know about all this?"

Johnny's reply was a hardening around his eyes, but he ruined his hard-as-nails cover by nudging Scott with his elbow and saying, "I ain't the one who was dumb enough to go and confront Garrett in the bunkhouse without telling no-one."

Scott just shook his head. "I was under the impression that you could trust your own kin."

"Stop it, you two." Murdoch almost blurted that Johnny should have just stayed in his room, but then the body on the patio would have been Teresa's, no doubt, and that was an unbearable thought.

"Well," Gabe said, nonplussed. "I just don't know what to say. Not at all."

Murdoch looked at Scott to see his reaction and found his son surprisingly calm. Teresa was staring at Johnny, with some fear of the consequences of their alleged actions mixed in with awe. Johnny blinked with tiredness. The sheriff scratched at his chin and looked very uncomfortable, and he in turn looked to Murdoch for guidance.

In the end, it was Scott who spoke up. "Well, I know what to say. Just call the death of Harlan Garrett death by misadventure. Self-defense if you will. Put it before the judge and have a closed hearing and be done with it."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Murdoch walked with the sheriff onto the front verandah, closing the glass-paned door behind them, making it clear that he wanted to talk to Gabe alone. "You'll wire the judge in Sacramento? Get someone down here soon so we can settle this, otherwise we'll have to wait six months for the circuit judge to amble into Green River."

"I hear from the doc that Scott is sending the deceased back East. He gonna accompany the body?"

Murdoch said sourly, "That remains to be seen."

One of the men brought the sheriff's horse over. Once mounted, Gabe adjusted his hat and said, "You're sure lucky, Lancer, having sons like those two, and the girl, too. She's got sand, for sure."

Murdoch glanced over his shoulder at the three young people inside. He could make out Scott handing a coffee cup to Johnny. Turning back to the sheriff, he said, "Sometimes, Gabe, they make me feel very old and tired."

Gabe chuckled, then turned serious. "You believe in Johnny's confession?"

"I believe he protected Teresa, and I'd guess he took an ounce of revenge while he was at it, but there's a distinct possibility that the sword blade didn't kill Garrett." He thought back to the conversation with Dr. Mendez's only an hour ago.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Dr. Mendez had stood in the great room and told Murdoch and Sheriff Stillwater: "Mr. Garrett's life did not end because of blood loss, or not entirely. Even if he'd survived the wounds, which is unlikely, my professional conclusion is that he would have died a very nasty death within the hour anyway."

Murdoch, stunned, had asked with his voice raised, "What the Hell are you talking about? Get on with it, man."

The doctor had snapped the cover of his pocket watch closed and returned it to his vest pocket. "Harlan Garrett had enough arsenic in his system to kill fifty rats."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Investigation of the source of the poisoning led them to an unlikely source. They had determined that on the evening that Harlan Garrett had died, Juan had delivered a large basket of cooked food to his door.

"I gave him all his meals," Juan told Murdoch late that afternoon. "Jelly brought a basket from the kitchen, like he always did since Mr. Garrett was locked up over in the bunkhouse. Mr. Garrett, he just took it. Closed the door on me without saying nothing. Then I sat out on the porch and kept guard." He looked sheepish for a moment. "My girl came over to visit and I spent some time with her. That is, until Jelly started chasing Mr. Rinaldo and I left my post." He added, his young face apologetic, "I know I was supposed to be guarding Mr. Garrett, and I let you down, Señor. Now my father wants to send me to Mexico, says I've shamed him."

Murdoch stifled his instinct to condemn the young man for his mistake. After all, if Juan had remained at his post, Garrett wouldn't have been able escape and make another attempt at killing Johnny. But in the end, all three of his family members were fine and would recover in time, both from their physical as well as mental wounds. Garrett was dead and gone and hopefully Scott would get over his pangs of guilt about bringing him to Lancer in the first place.

"Juan," Murdoch said gruffly, "I want you to stay at Lancer. Just take this as a lesson learned. Next time you're given an order, you'll do well to follow it. Understood?" He turned on his heel, not allowing Juan to see the slight smile that curled his lips.

Murdoch Lancer remembered Harlan Garrett telling him, so many years ago, back in Boston, that Scotty was as a son to him. And that he, Harlan, was the boy's father.

Garrett had said: "Now, what can you give him . . . a desolate strip of sand and rock to play on? A mud hut to live in, instead of a comfortable home? Is that what you want for your son?"

As he walked back to the house Murdoch said under his breath, "No, Harlan, I want my son to live in a fortress with his family, and that's exactly what he's got, and nothing you ever do can take that away from him."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

That evening, Scott located Jelly rebuilding an adobe wall at the rear of the barn, and asked about the food that had been delivered to his grandfather. "You passed it on to Juan?"

"I woulda rather kissed a snake as fed that old man," Jelly said, his chin raised defiantly. "But as he was your kin, Scott, and I just do what I'm told to with no complaints, I hauled that basket of vittles over to his quarters. If you're thinkin' I didn't deliver it or somethin', you come out and say so. Juan took it from me. I had no time for that sidewinder, but I took his grub over jus' like I was told to."

"You're not being accused of anything, Jelly." Scott didn't add that it was a good thing that the ranch hand hadn't sampled any of the dinner destined for Garrett.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Maria crossed her arms over her ample bosom and looked from Scott to Johnny with raised eyebrows. "Señor?" Just being questioned about her duties was enough to put her back up. "I got dinner to cook. I have no time for this."

Johnny perched on the edge of the broad-planked kitchen table and crossed his arms. "We just want to know what you fed Mr. Garrett that night, Maria. Por favor."

"There was something not good with my cooking?" Maria was affronted and didn't mind showing it. "You don't look too good, Johnny."

"Yeah, well, I feel as bad as I look, I expect, but I ain't going nowhere until we get some information," he replied with stoicism.

"Just answer the question, please Maria," Scott said, for what seemed like the fifth time. At the sight of the woman's pursed lips, Scott turned to Johnny. "You try."

With a hand on the woman's sleeve, Johnny pulled her gently to his side and spoke confidently to her. "Maria, you're not being blamed, not in any way. But I'm deadly serious. Hablo muyen serio. Tell me what you cooked for him that night."

She took her time, looking from the dark brother to the blond one, and eventually nodded. "He complained no matter what I made, you know. A fussy eater, he was. I made chicken, pollo asado, a little rice - even if he didn't like it - and beets and calabaza. The bottle of the wine you chose, Señor Scott." She hesitated then added, "I gave him simple food because he didn't like the ajolote you told me to serve him, Johnny."

Johnny made a sign to shush her, but it was too late.

Scott was frowning at him. "Okay, I'll bite," he said. "What's ajolote?"

"Ajolote?" Johnny repeated innocently.

"Don't try to squirm out of this, brother. I can tell a mile off it's not anything my grandfather would choose to eat. For a man who's got such a reputation for keeping a straight face, you're slipping."

"Oh, all right." Johnny grinned. "Ajolote is, uh, a kind of salamander. You stew it in tomato and tamales." He draped an arm over Maria's sturdy shoulders and gave her a kiss on top of her head. She blushed and shooed them out of the kitchen.

Scott kept an eye on Johnny as he followed him slowly back to his bedroom, but refrained from offering him any assistance. By the time they'd reached door, Johnny was tuckered out, the weakness from his blood loss catching up with him. After Scott puffed up the pillows for him to lean against, Johnny lay on top of the blanket with a sigh of relief.

"We're not much further forward," Scott said. "Except I now know to avoid tasting Maria's ajolote."

There was a tapping on the door. When Scott opened it, Maria was standing in the hallway. "One more thing I forget," she said. "I didn't say about it because I did not bake it, you understand."

With as much patience as he could muster, Scott said encouragingly, "You've been a great deal of help, Señora."

She beamed. "There was also a pie. Very small. It had a crust on top, so I do not know what was inside it. It had small leaf shapes cut out of the top and I could see. . . maybe it was meat inside-"

Johnny sat up. "You mean you didn't bake this pie?"

"Where did it come from?" Scott asked with urgency.

Maria looked fearful. "He told me to give to Señor Garrett."

"Who?" the brothers asked in unison.

Taken aback, Maria blurted out, "Isidro!"

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~


	20. Chapter 20

~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~ ~ • ~

CHAPTER 20 - PIECE OF THE PIE

Isidro sat solidly on his large bay gelding with his arms crossed, frowning at Murdoch.

Murdoch tried again. "Who gave you the pie? Maria didn't bake it. We know that much."

Scott rested his forearms on his saddle's pommel to watch the battle of the two men's wills. If Johnny had been here, he would have placed a bet with him that Murdoch wouldn't get anything out of the Segundo.

Johnny had been frustrated that he hadn't been able to ride with them out to the upper mesa in search of Isidro and the answer to the origin of the pie that had been Harlan Garrett's last supper. He'd been ready to accompany his father and brother, and even suggested they could tie him to his saddle if it would help. But Murdoch had threatened to tie Johnny to the bed instead, or dose him with a substantial amount of laudanum if he didn't remain at home. Finally acknowledging that a ride on horseback was beyond his present capabilities, Johnny had yielded, even if it pained him to be left out.

Murdoch urged his horse close to Isidro's until their legs bumped each other. Between gritted teeth, he said, "You want to tell me if you've got some reason for keeping this to yourself, Isidro?"

Isidro's horse backed off and stamped, but he spurred his mount forward again. With one hand gripping his quirt, Isidro leaned toward his boss until his face was only inches away from him. "How many years have I worked for you, Jefe? You want me to count the times we have fought our enemies together? You think I would ever take sides against your house?"

Not giving the man any sign he was going to back off, Murdoch replied, "Your loyalty to me and my family, to Lancer, has never been in question. But there was a death on my doorstep and I won't have my people keeping information from me. I've had enough of secrecy."

For emphasis, Isidro stabbed at Murdoch with his finger. "If I thought you questioned my code of honor, yo me moriría más bien. I'd rather die."

Scott exerted just enough pressure on his horse's sides to move a step closer to the two older men. They both swiveled to look at him as if startled by his presence. With a no-nonsense stare at the reluctant ranch hand, Scott said, "I know you well enough to know you didn't bake that pie, Isidro, but we need to know who did. What if there are more of them around and innocent folks eat them for dinner? Time's getting on."

"I was told to give it to your grandfather, to Señor Garrett. It was made only for him." In order to save face, Isidro made a show of making a decision, but in the end he told them who gave him the pie.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Murdoch and Scott stood in the warm, inviting kitchen as Mrs. Gunderson put on some coffee to heat. One of the fair-haired daughters ran out to the fields to locate Mr. Gunderson, and when he arrived they all sat at the worn farmhouse table in front of the hearth. After some small talk and asking how Gunderson's wounded arm was healing, Murdoch prepared to inquire about the deadly pie that had been served to Harlan Garrett. "We came here about something important," he started, then cleared his throat.

Mrs. Gunderson took advantage of the lapse in Murdoch's speech and blurted, "This is about the boys, isn't it?"

"The boys?" asked Scott. He glanced out the window to see the two boys he'd found in the orphanage and brought to help the Gundersons out.

Mrs. Gunderson followed his gaze and beamed. "They are good boys. Always helpful, just like this is their own home. They do the heavy lifting for my husband, and even got those big bales in the loft. And with no complaints at all."

Murdoch looked at the couple and saw no sign that they were hiding anything. He met Scott's eyes and silently asked if he should proceed with the questioning.

"We are fond of the boys." The furrows between Mr. Gunderson's brows indicated he was still in considerable pain and he held his injured arm close to his body. He said gruffly, "They have been here for only a few days but me and the missus want to give them a permanent home. What is a couple of extra mouths to feed? It would be good for them, being part of our family, no?"

"I'm sure they would be very happy," Scott said with a big smile. His joy at pairing the needy children from the Santo Monterro Orphanage with a family was tempered by their present problem. "But I have to ask you something." He looked up at Mrs. Gunderson as she refilled his coffee cup and asked her plainly, "Did you bake a pie and give it to Isidro, by any chance?"

Her smile faded and worried a look appeared. "Oh, you found out. It was my husband's idea. We know your grandfather did bad things, to Johnny and all. Mr. Rinaldo told us some of what happened. And Isidro, too, he came by to help out more than once."

Looking uncomfortable, Gunderson said, "We turn the other cheek. We are fortunate people to have such friends and neighbors, and this was a good deed." He shrugged. "Nothing more. We didn't want to make any trouble. Isidro said he would carry the meal to the grandfather. Was there something wrong with it? He didn't like. . . the taste?"

"It is said," Mrs. Gunderson added with a nod, "that only people who grow up eating them can stomach the taste later in life."

"Yes." Her husband agreed. "Mr. Rinaldo told us about the grandfather's fondness for it. He gave us the idea." He smiled broadly. "Mrs. Gunderson, she bakes a good meat pie, doesn't she?"

Murdoch leaned forward intently. "What, exactly, was in this pie?"

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Johnny couldn't help laughing aloud. He had to wrap his arms around his belly because the movement of his guffaws hurt him so bad. He sat in the great room in the company of his brother since everyone else had gone to bed early. The fire was burning down now that it was late and they were enjoying their second glass of brandy.

Even as he frowned at his brother, Scott tried not to smile in kind. "Johnny, it isn't humorous," he reprimanded.

"I'm sorry, Scott," Johnny managed to say once his laughter had somewhat subsided.

Scott reclined on the couch, his arms behind his head. "Jelly told me he'd seen Rinaldo being too friendly with my grandfather. Turns out they were talking about their favorite cuisine."

"Oh boy, imagine Harlan's favorite childhood dish being squirrel pie." Johnny settled back on the cushions, grinning to himself.

"I never sampled any, but I do recall the cook at home making squirrel pie. He was from the south somewhere and he'd been baking it every Thanksgiving ever since I remember. Grandfather just liked it, said his mother had made it - some kind of family tradition. The Chinese in Boston made some dish with it as a folk remedy for gout."

"So Rinaldo told the Gundersons and they thought they were doin' a good turn? Sent over some vittles for the old man?" Johnny chuckled.

"Well, I doubt that Martin Rinaldo envisioned the orphan boys going out under the barn and collecting the rats they'd poisoned and telling Mrs. Gunderson they were squirrels. The kids skinned them and cut the meat off for her, so by the time they were added to the pot, she had no idea they were rodents." Scott shook his head. "We decided not to tell the kids about my grandfather's death. They don't need to have that on their consciences all their lives. They've had it hard enough already."

Johnny turned his head to look straight at his brother. "You still going back there?" he asked cautiously. "To Boston, I mean," he added.

Scott took a moment to reply. "I want to escort my grandfather's body back to Boston, Johnny. I already telegrammed the lawyers and gave them instructions to get the family members together. As soon as the funeral is over, we'll get down to business and discuss my plan for breaking up the estate into equal portions." He indicated the mass of papers lying in an untidy heap on the coffee table. "I've jotted it all down there. Anyway, I can start the arrangements when I'm there, and once the estate is sorted out we'll divide it up."

"You sure that's the right thing to do?" Johnny asked.

"In my mind, it is. I'm sure I'll have advisors and there will be plenty of squabbling. After all, it's a sizable amount of money we're talking about." He grinned at Johnny. "It's funny how casually I can think about giving away most of twenty million dollars. But it's not really mine, or I don't think of it that way. It's best this way."

Johnny took a sip of his brandy then absently swilled the amber liquid around the glass. "You shouldn't go all that way alone. You know somethin' always happens to you if I ain't there to keep an eye on you."

Scott pointed to the bruise and cut on his own head. "You're usually the reason I get into trouble, brother." He reached out to slap Johnny on the arm.

"Hey, I'm wounded! Be careful, will ya?"

"I'm going most of the way by rail and it'll be a sight easier than the trip I had coming out here. That stage travel!" Scott pulled a face. "Besides, I have someone going with me, so you don't have to worry."

Casting a suspicious look at Scott, Johnny asked, "Who?"

"Murdoch suggested I should take Juan. He can assist me and he'll enjoy the trip, I'm sure. I'd like the company, anyway." At the sight of Johnny's solemn face, Scott pointed out, "I'll be back in six weeks, if all goes according to plan. Then I won't be going back East again."

"When you get back, can we check out the railroad we own? You're gonna be keeping that, aren't you?"

Scott rubbed his chin with his fingers. "Hmmm. You mean the Scott & Murdoch Rail Line?"

Johnny sat up. "Heck, no! You're gonna call it the Lancer line, remember?" He caught on that Scott had been pulling his leg and he grinned.

Scott laughed aloud for the first time in days. "Oh, by the way, I found something I think is yours." Out of his pocket, he pulled a necklace, an oval silver pendant on a fine chain. He dangled it in front of Johnny, who reached out a hand to accept it.

Johnny turned it over in his palm. "Where'd you find this?"

"In the fountain out there." Scott motioned in the direction of the patio.

Johnny held the charm aloft then handed it back to a surprised-looking Scott.

"Why are you giving it back?" Scott asked.

Johnny considered him for a minute, then said, "'Cause it ain't mine."

"I thought you lost it in the struggle with-." Scott sat up straight and put his brandy snifter safely on the table. Johnny, when he looked at him, was straight-faced and Scott couldn't quite figure out if this was one of his brother's pranks.

"It's not mine," Johnny insisted. "I wear St. Christopher, but my medallion is up in my bedroom as far as I know. I haven't seen it since I got hurt. Look, this one's St. Andrew. He's a Scottish saint." He said, affronted, "I wouldn't get caught dead wearing one of them."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Scott tracked down Jelly in the kitchen the next morning and proffered the small medallion to him. The ranch hand just looked at the necklace as it dangled from Scott's fingers, and for a minute, Scott was sure that the man would deny it was his.

Then Jelly laid claim to it. "Murdoch gave that to me for some kind protection." He brusquely shoved it into his pocket with a vague, mumbled explanation and sat down to the generous breakfast Maria laid out for him. "Darned if I know how that got away from me. The chain musta busted. Maria, pass me some syrup for these dough-daddies you call pancakes!"

Scott didn't explain where he'd found the necklace or even ask Jelly how it got in the fountain where Harlan Garrett's body had been discovered. At this point Scott only knew that more than one person in the Lancer household had had a hand in the death of his grandfather. He wasn't even sure that Johnny had really been out on the patio, or had rescued Teresa by struggling with Garrett and knifing the man with his own swordstick.

Scott wasn't certain he wanted to know the truth, whatever it was. He had been driven to pursue the men who had held Johnny for Harlan's first attempt at murder but now that the urge for revenge had passed away, he felt weary of it all.

Scott was leaving later that morning to travel back East by railway, so Maria packed him a hamper of food to take on the journey. "Jelly can take it out to the carriage when he's finished eating," said Scott. "I won't be going for another hour." He gave Maria a kiss on the cheek and a big hug, said good-bye to Jelly then went off to bid farewell to the rest of the family.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Jelly put his fork down as soon as Scott left the kitchen. He peered over his shoulder at Maria and whispered, "Let's get it done now, afore some other galoot comes a-snoopin' around." Maria promptly left her cooking and pulled a sturdy chair over to the pantry. Jelly reached under the sink, where a checkered cloth hid the drainpipe, and pulled out a canister the size of a five-pound bag of flour. Furtively looking around to make sure there was nobody coming, he hustled over to where Maria was waiting.

She took the canister from Jelly, held the chair firmly for him to clamber upon, then handed it up to him. He placed the container high on the top shelf and moved a box of string in front of it. "That'll do for a bit," Jelly said. "I'll take it out to the barn where it belongs after things have cooled off a bit." He jumped to the floor and dusted his hands off on his pants.

"We must wash our hands," Maria pointed out. "The two of us."

"Darned right," Jelly replied as he worked the kitchen pump. He grinned at the faithful Lancer worker. "You know what, Señora?"

"Qué es?" She handed him the soap.

"I'm darned glad I'm not your enemy, that's for darned sure. If'n you don't mind me sayin' so Ma'am."

Maria just smiled sweetly.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

The whole family and most of the Lancer workers were out at the front of the hacienda to say farewell to Scott. Juan was being hugged by his father, Cipriano, as well as by his five sisters, his girlfriend and his mother. He was breathless by the time he escaped their embrace and seemed relieved to get up in the buckboard with the luggage.

Murdoch clasped his tall, blond son to his chest and gave him a hard hug. "Don't let them talk you into doing anything you don't want to do, son. Remember who's the boss."

Scott grinned. "You are, sir," he quipped. Teresa clung to his waist for a minute, her eyes bright with tears. He said softly, "Hey, no more crying. Promise?"

"There isn't any reason to cry, is there?" she asked. "You come home safe."

Johnny made it to the verandah under his own power, even if he had to concentrate on every step he took and sweated like he was laboring out in the fields.

"Johnny, by the time I return," Scott said, eying him, "you'll be back in shape, all ready to cause some new ruckus."

"Scott, if you don't walk through that door in exactly six weeks," Johnny said seriously, "I'm gonna come after you. You know that?"

With a laugh that held more than a hint of affection in it, Scott replied, "Brother, I would expect no less from you." Johnny held out a piece of folded paper, and Scott took it, opening it curiously. "What's this?"

"I drew you a map." Johnny pointed to the diagram and the scribbled words he'd sketched out that morning. "So you've got no excuse not to find your way home again."

Scott held the paper, seeing not only the names of his destination and several prominent cities and landmarks in between Boston and California, but a drawing of a castle-like structure right where Lancer was located. "You drew this, Johnny?"

Johnny shuffled his feet a bit. "Yeah. It ain't much good, but you get the point."

"It's just fine, Johnny." Scott carefully folded the paper again and tucked it in the breast pocket of his traveling suit. He patted his jacket, right where the map was safely stored. "I'll keep it on me at all times, and when I'm done with this business, I'll head right for this fortress." He gave Johnny a quick hug and mounted the buckboard. Calling good-bye, Juan took up the reins and they were off.

As they drove through the Lancer gate, Scott looked back to take a last look at his family standing in front of the hacienda, and he knew that this would always be his home, no matter where he went in the world. He raised a hand high in farewell and didn't take his eyes off them until he could see them no more.

The end

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An end note: My idea for this story began when I read the first of the following quotes. They all tie into the ideas and feelings I've tried to express in this Lancer tale, so I've added them here for you to read. Thank you for reading my fanfic.

When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life.  
~Antisthenes 5th c. B.C.

Justice is an unassailable fortress, built on the brow of a mountain which cannot be overthrown by the violence of torrents, nor demolished by the force of armies. ~Joseph Addison 1672-1719

A mighty fortress is our God  
A bulwark never failing;  
Our helper he amid the flood  
Of mortal ills prevailing.  
~Martin Luther (1483–1546)

United wills make a fortress.  
~Chinese proverb

The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence as for his repose.  
~Sir Edward Coke (1552–1634)

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Comments and feedback are always appreciated!


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